


Swear By All Flowers

by sweetestdrain



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestdrain/pseuds/sweetestdrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after the yellow-eyed demon is defeated, the Winchesters are still waiting for their happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the lights could go at any time

PART ONE: _the lights could go at any time_

 

Sam woke to the sound of distant hoof beats.

Blinking up at the trees arching above him, Sam swallowed thickly and rolled to his stomach, getting his legs under him. The fallen leaves beneath his palms were damp and muddy with rain. The hooves came closer, echoed by the harsh panting breaths of horse and rider.

"Hey," Sam called out. "Who's there?"

There was no response. Sam peered through the trees until he could see them approaching, moving from a regular trot to a full gallop. He sucked in a breath and lurched to his feet, stumbling back from the middle of the forest path.

The first rider passed in a flurry of white. His horse was pale as a snap of ice, teeth bared in fierce exertion, driving hard hooves into the thick patches of mud on the path. Neither spared a look for Sam and whipped past where Sam stood, leaving mud streaked across Sam's face.

Sam raised a hand to the spatters on his cheek and touched them cautiously. They were so cold they froze his fingertips, and his hand came away bloody.

The next horseman, dressed all in orange and red, yanked fiercely on his reins and his horse tossed its mane in a flourish of blood-flavored copper. They paused, mid-flight, in front of Sam, and the man stared at him a moment. Sam raised his chin.

"Who are you?" Sam asked. "Where are you going?"

The man only raised an eyebrow, and kicked his horse into motion again.

The third rider, however, made Sam freeze and wonder for the first time if he was dreaming. He _must_ be dreaming. The man's clothing was so black that it seemed to eat the light, and his eyes were a furious yellow, glinting viciously as he stared down at Sam from atop his stallion.

"_You_," said Sam. "But that's impossible, we killed you - you're _gone._"

The man just gazed at Sam a moment, his face in shadow, then he cracked a smile. The shine of teeth was distractingly familiar.

Sam caught his breath. It wasn't the demon at all. He had been wrong.

"Dad? "

"Hey, son," his father said gently, his eyes shining gold -- _gold_, not yellow. His eyes were the gold of spindly sunflowers and pages of old books, the gold of a warm fire.

"Dad," Sam said. "_Dad_."

But it was just a dream. His dad was dead, and Sam was going to wake up. There was no use saying anything else.

Dad smiled. He looked happy. "It's okay, Sammy. You did good. You did _good_, son."

Sam opened his mouth, but before he could even start to say anything -- _Wait, I love you, I'm sorry -_ or _you son of a bitch, daddy, are you okay, please talk to me,_ or _I'll never forgive you,_ or _did you know the demon's gone?_ \-- John Winchester gave one last smile, cocked his head to the side as if he were tipping an invisible hat, and whispered something to his horse. They bounded away and faded into the shadows like they'd never left them.

The dream shifted, forming itself into Sam's bedroom ceiling. Sam could still hear the horses; their hooves knocked at the ground and sent throbbing waves of sound through Sam's brain as they clattered away.

Wait. Knocked?

Sam jolted awake. His sheets were twisted around his feet, and his room was filled with shaky early-morning light. On the other end of the apartment, someone was pounding out an obnoxious rhythm on the front door.

 

*

 

And so, five days before Sam turned twenty-six years old, his brother Dean showed up at his door at the crack of dawn. Dean ignored Sam's bewilderment and tossed the keys to the Impala at his face.

"We need to be in L.A. by tonight," Dean said. "Get your ass moving. You're driving. I hate this fucking traffic."

Sam snatched the keys from their intended trajectory an instant before they hit him in the eye. He took a moment to stare. He figured he was entitled; he hadn't seen his brother in two years.

Dean slid on a pair of dark sunglasses and gave Sam an implacable look. Then, without a word, he stepped off the porch and headed back to the Impala.

Sam blinked, turned back inside the house and headed for his bedroom. He slammed through the door and quickly threw a couple things in a duffel bag. Sam didn't even really know what he was packing, but he'd had enough practice over the years that he could pretty much pack in his sleep. A couple T-shirts, a hoodie, a pair of jeans, an extra pair of sneakers in case the pair he was wearing got soaked in guts or graveyard muck.

It took Sam a couple minutes longer to pack than it usually did because he kept Dean's car keys gripped tight in one hand. The dull bite of metal against his palm was proof that Dean was waiting outside; that Dean wasn't just going to leave without him. It was proof that Dean was _there_.

Despite his slowness, Sam already had his duffel packed and slung over one shoulder and his feet jammed into some sneakers - no socks, laces untied - when his roommate Mark finally came out of his own bedroom, yawning and bleary-eyed, to see what all the rustling and slamming of dresser drawers was about.

"I'm going to be out of town for a while," Sam blurted. "I don't know when I'll be back."

Mark gave him a blank look. "What?"

"My brother's here," said Sam. "It's - I - hey, look, I gotta go. I'll call you when I know what's up. Or what to do with my stuff."

"What do you mean," said Mark slowly, "Do what with your stuff? Hey, what about the rent? You're coming back, aren't you?"

But Sam was already out the door.

 

*

Two years ago and change, they'd kicked the demon's ass. While the big dark gash in the earth was still sealing slowly and inexorably over its angry cries, Sam felt almost joyous. He wouldn't have expected any joy to still be left in him, after years of hunting and being hunted by the yellow-eyed thing - but there it was, a sudden bubble of _this is it_ and _free now_. Sam took a breath that caught into a sudden flicker of hope.

It was dark in the warehouse, almost unnaturally so, with brief sparks of light coming from the ripped electrical cables in the roof - but the demon was finally _gone_. No more nightmares. No more deaths. Sam almost laughed.

The next flicker of light, however, erased the feeling of joy like it had never existed.

"Dean? Dean!"

Shit, Sam swore to himself. He should have noticed, should have realized Dean wasn't still at his back. Sam moved at a fast limp over to where Dean was sprawled, utterly still and unmoving.

"Dean!" And Sam couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe at all anymore, because Dean wasn't breathing, Dean wasn't even -

He was next to Dean now, the knees of his jeans soaking up blood and worse, his hands checking for a pulse. Dean's skin was rubbery and slick beneath his fingers, eyes rolled back white, and his head lolled to the side when Sam tried to shake him awake. Sam was babbling, Sam couldn't - not _this_, not _now_ \--

"Dean, _wake up._ Say something, Dean, _Dean_ -"

 

*

 

"Say something, man."

Dean grunted in response. "Something."

Sam rolled his eyes and turned the radio down another notch, ignoring Dean's muttered protest.

"What the hell happened to you?" Sam pressed further. "You never called. I couldn't find your new cell phone number. Bobby and Ellen said they didn't know anything. I - Jesus, I thought you might've been eaten by a werewolf or something."

"Nah," said Dean. "The bitch woulda spit me back out, anyway. Speaking of bitches, nice to see you, too."

Sam snorted. "Asshole."

They drove in near silence for a while, the only noise from the tinny rasp of CCR on the radio. _You don't need a penny just to hang around. But if you've got a nickel won't you lay your money down._ Sam realized he was gritting his teeth and consciously relaxed, loosening his grip on the steering wheel.

Finally, he couldn't take the silence, not after two whole years of it. "So. What's in L.A.?"

Dean might have been giving him the silent treatment, or he may've actually been asleep until Sam spoke. Sam couldn't really tell with the shades covering Dean's eyes.

"Some haunted hotel," Dean yawned. "Got trashed in all that shit that went down there a few years ago. Looked like a bomb went off. Now it's mysteriously regained its interior decorating, along with a hefty population of its residents. Tons of weird noises, a couple mysterious disappearances, the works."

Sam nodded. "Right. Wouldn't happen to be the Hyperion, would it?"

Dean stared at him, or at least, the black lenses of Dean's sunglasses were trained in Sam's direction. "Yeah. The Hyperion. You heard of it?"

Sam shrugged. "Your news is old, man. I went through and cleaned that place out months ago."

Sam half-expected a "You did what?" or maybe even a begrudgingly proud "Attaboy, Sammy," but Dean remained silent.

It had been an easy job, even after all the mysterious disappearances. Two men and a pretty girl, bloodstained and laughing, who greeted Sam as if they had been waiting for him to show up. These days, ghosts were never angry when Sam showed up; they were grateful, maybe, more than anything.

Dean's silence was catching. Sam suddenly felt awkward, his hands clammy on the steering wheel.

"Well," Dean said finally, "You want to turn around, then?"

Sam sent him a quick glance but still couldn't figure out what Dean was thinking. Some asshole honked at them even though they were already going ten miles over the speed limit, and a brief flash of annoyance bent Dean's mouth, but Sam couldn't tell anything else from his face.

"You mean, you really did come all this way to get me just so we could chase a few sad spirits out of an abandoned building?" asked Sam. "And here I thought you were just finding an excuse to say hi."

Dean turned away. "Keep driving, then," he said. "Whatever."

 

*

 

They cut across Nevada and Utah like pros, vivisecting the West like they were born to it, and crossed the border into Wyoming with the sun at their backs. It set slowly behind them, throwing crazy streaks of copper and smoke-purple across the sky.

Dean watched the sunset in the passenger-side mirror for a bit, grateful that the light was finally dimming and he could take his shades off.

Once Dean lost interest in the sunset, he turned to watching Sam, whose gaze was scarily intent on the road. Sam was always like that when he drove, had been for years. It was like Sam thought the road might wriggle away somewhere if he didn't keep staring at it. Sam had been driving for hours with only a few short breaks, but the exhaustion was only now starting to wear on his face.

The past two years had been kind to his little brother; Sam was tanned and his hair was cut a little shorter than he usually had it, but he looked healthy. There were some extra lines around Sam's mouth and eyes, just enough to add age, and he looked so much like Dad for a moment that Dean's breath caught, like it wanted to be fooled.

The orange light from the sunset splayed across the back of Sam's neck, the side of his face. Dean looked, letting his eyes trace the interplay of shadow and glow along the line where short hair curled at the nape of Sam's neck. Sam's shoulders were still as broad as ever, his gray t-shirt smudged with dirt and faintly wet in the places where sweat stuck the fabric to his spine.

Dean tore his gaze away and turned back to the window, pursing his lips in thought. His thumb rubbed over the jagged scar on the back of his left hand, tracing its edges over and over again. Habit. A two-year-old habit.

The tendons had been slashed so viciously that the hand still wouldn't close all the way, but it had gotten better; Dean could at least grip the steering wheel and a bottle of beer, if not a pen, but he was right-handed anyway; it was damned inconvenient, but no big loss.

"Hey," Sam said suddenly, then cleared the rasp from his throat. "You up for stopping, soon? Or are we just gonna keep driving? Cause if so, man, we gotta switch."

Dean watched the edges of the sky darken. "Yeah. Yeah, let's stop."

 

*

 

Dean couldn't sleep, but then, he didn't sleep much these days. It was four o'clock in the morning in another nameless motel room, and the wallpaper seemed to crawl as Dean stared at it. Hopefully it was an optical illusion, and not cockroaches.

Sam whimpered in his sleep, tossing and turning in the next bed. Dean had to tighten his grip on the sheets so he wouldn't go over there and put his hands on Sam to try to calm him down. Old history. The time for that comfort was past, and it wasn't Dean's job to hold Sam after nightmares anymore.

Sam gave a harsh breath and whipped his arms, banging one of them into the headboard with a thunk that made Dean wince. He thought Sam would have woken himself up with that, but Sam kept panting, made some noise that sounded like _stop_.

Dean tightened his jaw, about to say _screw it_ and go wake Sam up, when Sam jerked and his breathing changed.

Dean waited a beat. "You okay?" he asked, softly enough not to disturb Sam if he were still asleep.

"I'm fine," said Sam. "Just. Weird dreams."

"Nothing to worry about," Dean reminded him. That was #7 on the list of good things about the demon being gone. (Dean had once gotten to #345 before he ran out of good things.)

"I know," said Sam.

They both laid there in the darkness for a while. Dean figured Sam was going to go back to sleep, but the sound of Sam's restless fidgeting put that notion to rest.

"Dude," said Dean. "What?"

"Dean... Why did you come _now_?" Sam asked. He turned on his side and stared at Dean. "Don't get me wrong, it's good to see you, but."

Dean shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea." He wanted to add something to that, some sort of joke or insult to lighten things up, get Sam off his back, but his sense of humor felt as dried up as the rest of him.

Sam kept looking at him, and Dean tried to ignore it for as long as he could.

"So, how's school?" Dean said finally. His words hung awkwardly in the air, as if they were fishing lures bobbing on an empty lake.

There was more silence, and then Sam sat up and stared at him. Dean had forgotten how much he really hadn't missed that particular bitchy look. Sam's hair was sticking up funny on one side, and Dean told himself that it was an inappropriate time to laugh.

"What?" Dean said defensively. He _really_ didn't like that look.

"Dean," said Sam. "I graduated over a year ago."

"Oh," said Dean. "Right." Dean hadn't known; he thought going through law school usually took longer than that. But maybe Sam had decided to do something else. "Congratulations?"

"Thanks," Sam said. After a moment of Dean purposefully not asking anything else, because he was liable to screw that up too, Sam added, "I have a great internship. It's a non-profit. Peace and social justice, environmental issues, you know."

"Cool," said Dean, grimacing internally. It seemed like something Sam would be into, but it left Dean cold. He wondered if Sam wore Birkenstocks and burned nag champa incense now, and Dean gave a shudder and burrowed a little further into the blankets at the thought.

"Not really," said Sam. His tone was so hostile that it took Dean aback for a moment.

"What do you want me to say, Sam?" Obviously, Dean had stumbled into one of Sam's hissy fits-in-the-making. Joy. This whole late night heart-to-heart shit was starting to seem like a bad idea.

"Uh, I don't know, what _should_ you say?" Sam snapped. He abruptly rolled out of bed, arms crossed angrily like a housewife.

He crossed to Dean's bed. "Maybe you could say, 'I'm sorry I took off for two years with no explanation'? Maybe, 'I'm sorry I'm being a douche and not explaining why I suddenly came back"? Maybe you could even say _why_ you took off in the first place."

It would have been easy to get pissed at Sam, all of Sam's self-righteous indignation and wounded pride - if Sam hadn't been utterly right, too. Dean had been an asshole. There was no helping that fact.

"Sam," said Dean, having trouble getting words past his dry throat. Sam stood over him, obviously trying to use his height as a fucking intimidation tool, and Dean sat up in bed to even the difference. "You have no fucking idea -"

"No! I don't! And whose fault is that, Dean?"

Dean raised his hand and looked away, warding Sam off. Sam slapped his hand away. "Why are you acting like I'm the one being difficult, here? Poor misunderstood Dean, with his sudden decision to just _disappear --_"

"You were going back to school. You were getting your life back together -"

"No. No, no, no. _Fuck you_," said Sam. "I was going back to school. So what? That wasn't going to be my entire life. That wasn't going to mean that I wanted to just - fuck - just fucking lose my whole family, you know?"

Dean inhaled sharply, feeling that one like a punch to the gut. Sam looked actually sorry about what he had said - for about two seconds, then he continued like the ruthless bastard he was.

"You were all I had," said Sam. "And you were just _gone._ I never wanted that. I didn't want to -" He broke off and turned away, pacing. "Fuck. Just, no."

"I'm sorry," said Dean, and he was. He _was_ so fucking sorry, he had never wanted to hurt Sam. Twenty fucking years of giving Sam everything he wanted, doing anything for Sam... all followed by one decision made out of selfishness, and now here they were. Dean should have known better.

Sam pressed his lips together and looked away, his jaw flexing.

"Sam -"

"Never mind," said Sam. He heaved a sigh and sat down at the table by the window, putting his face in his hands. "Just. Go to sleep."

Dean lay back down, tugged the covers up to his waist, and stared at the ceiling until morning.

 

*

 

Sam was cranky and tired the next morning, but when Dean handed him the keys, he took them. Whatever. It was kind of refreshing to drive cross-country again, after two years of bumming rides and taking public transportation. Sam told Dean that, and Dean snorted.

"Public transportation was invented by the Devil, Sam. All those people crammed into one little smelly bus? All you need's some brimstone, and you're all set."

And things were almost how Sam remembered them, for a while; he and Dean were almost normal. The weird silences of the day before were gone, and Dean was cracking jokes that grew increasingly off-color. He even wrested control of the radio away from Sam - (_Hey, driver picks the music, shotgun -_

Shotgun has the right to turn off fucking Bright Eyes_ for the sake of his eardrums. Shut your mouth._)

\-- and Sam didn't even complain about listening to AC/DC's "Problem Child" on repeat thirty times in a row, because, like the feel of the Impala's keys in his hand, it meant Dean was _back_.

_What I need I like,_ the tape deck screeched, the song's too-heavy bass making the Impala shudder on the road. _What I don't I fight, and I don't like you_.

When they stopped for lunch, Dean kept eying their blonde, busty waitress over the top of his sunglasses, and went so far as to stick his leg into the aisle so that she had to brush past him whenever she came through with trays. Instead of cursing him out for almost tripping her, she _giggled_ through her greasy maroon lipstick.

"You keep rolling your eyes like that and they'll stick," said Dean.

"Really?" said Sam. "If that's all it took, you would think it would have happened sometime in the last twenty-five years."

"Ooh, feisty," said Dean, and flipped him off.

Things were so normal between them that Sam was convinced that yesterday had been a fluke. No matter how close they had been, being apart for two years and suddenly reunited was bound to be awkward even between brothers.

But Sam couldn't let their late-night conversation go that easily. He still wanted answers, so Sam brought it up as they were leaving the outskirts of Sidney, Nebraska.

Dean looked at him like he was an idiot. "Come on. I had to leave," Dean said. "You've always wanted to be a college boy..."

Sam rolled his eyes. Maybe Dean was right and they _would_ get stuck like that.

"...Get married, get a job, be a lawyer, _normal_ -"

Dean stopped and glared at Sam, who had repeated the last few words along with him.

"Shit, Dean, it's not like you haven't said it before," said Sam. "But things change."

"Whatever. You wanted a normal life, and I was only going to distract from that. Jesus, Sam, it wasn't going to be a forever kind of thing. I was going to come back."

"It was _two years_," said Sam. He didn't even know if he could describe it to Dean, or if he wanted to. How he'd been so fucking lonely, how he'd felt like he'd finally fucked up and lost everyone he loved - this time without the demon's help. "Two years without a word. It felt like forever. Why did you leave?"

Dean's jaw worked. "You don't need to know why," he said finally.

And wasn't that just _rich_. Sam slammed his palm on the steering wheel, ignoring Dean's wince. "Goddamnit, Dean! So you're just like Dad, now, is that it?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Oh, you know exactly what I'm talking about, Dean. Just keep Sammy in the dark. Sam doesn't need to know _anything_. You _are_, Dean. You're getting just like him."

"Shut the fuck up about Dad," said Dean.

"I'm not talking about Dad!" Sam had to keep his eyes on the road and not punch Dean in the jaw. Keep his eyes on the road, and not punch Dean in the jaw... "I'm talking about _you_, Dean. Leaving without a fucking word. Hell, at least Dad sent coordinates every so often."

Dean's face hardened. "Well," he said. "Would you think of that. Two years, without a word. Not like I would know how that felt, huh?"

"Oh," Sam breathed. He shook his head at Dean. "No. You don't get to pin this on me. I was _eighteen._ I needed to get away and I was fucking terrified. That's different."

"I don't see how it _is_ different," said Dean. Sam cast him a surprised look, and Dean added, "Hey, pull over here."

Still trying to figure out what Dean meant by that, Sam pulled over. Dean got out of the Impala, slid his sunglasses on and strode toward the bar at the side of the road, just a couple hundred feet away.

"Where the hell are you going?" Sam called after him, even though it was kind of obvious.

"I'm getting a fucking drink," said Dean. He didn't even pause.

Sam sighed, then twisted the wheel and turned into the bar's parking lot, cutting a sharp swerve in front of Dean and almost knocking him over. Dean cussed him out, but Sam ignored him and parked.

"Fine," Sam said to himself. "Then I'm getting a fucking drink, too."

 

*

 

Sam stayed at the bar for about forty minutes, just long enough to see that Dean intended to spend the rest of the night getting completely drunk off his ass and probably fucked, too, if the glances he was sending at the anorexic girl at the next barstool were any indication. Sam drank one beer, slowly, then left without a word. Dean could find his own way to whatever motel Sam could find in this shithole of a town.

And still, Sam couldn't figure it out.

What the hell was Dean scared of?

Sam sat in the Beantree Motel room's cheap upholstered chair, kicked it back onto two legs, and leaned his head against the wall. He watched the lights from passing cars, their shapes thrown through the curtain like little pinpricks against the night.

What was it? Was Dean scared of Sam? It didn't make sense; there had been times that Dean should have been _terrified_ of Sam, and the stubborn jerk still stood by him. No, it was something else. And Sam had no idea what that something else was.

But whatever it was, it still didn't justify what Dean had done - if Dean had been scared, or in danger, they should have handled it _together_.

Sam briefly entertained thoughts of sleep, but he was too wired. The traffic had dried up hours before and the night outside was deathly still. It chilled Sam's bones to stare out at the open, empty road, but he kept sitting there, waiting for Dean to come back.

In the end, it didn't matter. Sam was going to find out what Dean's problem was, and he could yell at Dean after he knew exactly what he was yelling about. In the meantime, his brother was back in his life, and Sam was going to use the chance to grab on to Dean and not let go.

Sam fell asleep in the chair, still waiting. He dreamed of horses.

 

*

 

Dean was back the next morning, disheveled and frowning. Sam didn't say anything to him, just unpacked and repacked their bags as Dean used the shower. When they finally left the dim room, the morning sunlight was shocking and harsh. Dean kept wincing at the brightness, probably suffering from a bad hangover.

"Where are your sunglasses?" Sam motioned at Dean's face. "Might help."

"In the car," Dean said. "_Mom._"

"Whatever, man. Just trying to help."

Sam stopped for a moment while loading their bags in the trunk, and tried to remember the last time he'd heard Dean call him _Sammy._

 

*

 

After a few hours driving, Sam's stomach was growling constantly in lingering hope for real nourishment. At one pronounced grumble, Dean raised an eyebrow and offered him a candy bar.

"Jesus, Dean, I don't need any Twix. I need actual food."

Dean looked at him for a second, his lips twitching into an achingly familiar smirk. "Looks like there's a rest stop coming up soon," he said. "We can pick up some trail mix for that sensitive stomach of yours."

"Asshole," Sam muttered, but he took the exit.

The rest stop was completely empty, no truckers or anyone around, but the snack machines were still fully stocked. Sam counted his quarters and got some trail mix and packs of small, crumbly donuts. He considered buying some ice cream bars as a peace offering for Dean, but before he could, Dean interrupted him.

"Sam."

Dean's tone made Sam's skin prickle. He shifted onto the balls of his feet and went through a mental inventory of the weapons at hand, and - shit. All their guns and rocksalt were still in the trunk. Dean probably had a gun tucked in his pants - Dean _always_ had a gun tucked in his pants, the overcompensating bastard - but Sam didn't have anything except trail mix, donuts, and a pocket full of quarters and lint. Well. He'd just have to improvise.

Sam turned around slowly, scanning their surroundings for anything that might have caused Dean's warning. He didn't know what he was expecting, at first, but it wasn't what he saw.

Dean was staring at the corner of the rest stop building, where a small, dark-eyed girl was standing, staring back at him. She was fuzzy and transparent at the corners, like an overexposed photograph.

"Is she -"

"Yeah. Definitely. She's..." Dean trailed off, took a step closer to the girl. "Hey, honey," he said gently. "Are you trying to tell us something?"

The girl flickered, indistinct, then appeared again in a spot five feet behind where she had been standing.

Dean cast a quick look at Sam and took another few steps forward. The girl flickered again, and this time she reappeared further away, near the edge of the woods bordering the edge of the rest area.

Dean peered at her for a moment. "Sam, go get the salt and lighter fluid."

 

*

 

It wasn't hard to find the girl's mortal remains, not with the girl's ghost acting as guide. The small, pale bones were hidden underneath a medium-size boulder, deeply compressed into the patch of earth revealed once the rock was rolled aside. Old shreds of skin and fabric were wrapped around the body, arms and legs bent into a mockery of a fossil.

"Jesus," said Sam quietly. "She was crushed to death."

Dean murmured something under his breath and bent to look closer, cocking his head to meet the place where the eyes would have been. The shattered pieces of skull stared back.

Sam pressed his lips together, saying a silent prayer for the girl, and began to tug the tiny bones out of the dirt, laying them out carefully on the flat stone next to the boulder.

"Probably about five years old," said Dean. "Maybe six."

Sam's fingers caught on a scrap of fabric that crumbled easy as mud at his touch. "Native American, you think?"

"Huh," Dean muttered. He'd found a scrap of beaded material and was brushing the mud from its surface. "Yeah, you're right. This definitely looks Indian."

Sam sighed a little at Dean's continued insistence on political incorrectness, but let it pass. It wasn't like the girl would care.

A slight movement caught Sam's eye, and he looked up, finding the girl standing over them. She was more solid-looking, now; Sam could make out her clothing and her sad, blank face. Dean was right, she was young.

"Hey," Sam said gently, and Dean looked up. "She's back."

"Oh," said Dean. "Hi there." He stretched a hand toward her, like he was offering his scent to a wary dog. She gave him a timid, monochromatic smile. "Hey," Dean smiled back at her. "Would you look at that. It's gonna be okay, kid."

There was something odd about Dean's voice, and Sam looked at him sharply, but Dean just turned back to the tiny skeleton, clearing mud and worms away from the edges of her crushed skull with careful fingers.

"Hang on there, sweetheart," Dean said. "We'll have you out of here in a jiff."

 

*

 

Dean looked down at the small pile of ashes, all that was left of the little girl's bones. She hadn't been so bad. She had smiled at him.

Dean had a lot more sympathy for ghosts, these days.

"What was that all about?" Sam said. He sounded pissed, again, although his voice was subdued.

"What was what all about?"

"You just followed her. We didn't have any idea if she was hostile or not, and you just followed her. That was fucking careless."

"I knew she wasn't hostile," said Dean. "Not many of them are, these days, haven't you noticed?"

"But there's always a chance!" Sam sighed and glanced back at the girl's ashes. "Anyway, man, I just don't know what's going on with you, lately. And you're not letting me know. You've never just followed ghosts before, Dean, that's not what you do."

"How would you know?" Dean stared at the ashes.

"I just _know_, Dean, you're my brother." Sam sighed. "But you're - Jesus, nevermind." He paused, continued like he was talking to himself. "It's like you don't even want to be my brother anymore."

Dean felt like someone had dropped a capsule of acid into his stomach. He opened his mouth, trying to figure out something that would appease Sam's curiosity without giving the whole fucking game away, but there was nothing.

"Sam," Dean said, and his voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Hey. Sammy?"

Sam looked up at him quickly, like something in Dean's tone had caught his attention. His mouth went tight and worried. "Yeah?"

"I'm dying," said Dean.

And yeah, maybe that was a little abrupt, but it was the truth. That was all Dean had.

Sam stared at him.

Dean scratched his neck. "Yeah, so. They're giving it about two months." Sam's face was starting to lose color, his lips pressed in a thin line. It really was ironic, Dean thought, that after everything that he and Sam had been through, they had ended up like this. "Kinda funny, huh?"

Sam blinked. "You're dying," he repeated, as if saying it would make the words make sense.

Dean gave him a wry smile. "That's why I came to see you. I didn't want to go out without... I needed to let you know." And that was at least half of the truth, right there. Almost half.

"You're joking." Sam laughed thinly, refusing to believe him, so obviously refusing with everything he had in him. It made Dean's chest hurt. "Dude, that's so not funny."

Dean shook his head. "Sammy..."

Sam turned away from Dean, and he stared down at the girl's ashes instead. "Don't call me Sammy," he said. "You didn't before, don't start now. What is it? Your heart?"

"No," said Dean. "It's. Well."

"What?" Sam paused, laughed a little more, still refusing to look at him. Oh, Sammy. "Don't tell me you've got AIDS."

"I don't have AIDS."

"Syphilis? Cancer?"

"No," said Dean. "Don't be stupid."

Sam nodded jerkily and started walking. Dean spared a last glance for the lonely smudges of ash on the flat stone, and then followed him.

"What is it, then?" Sam's tone was cursory, like he was asking about the weather.

"It's a curse, actually." Dean shrugged. "Or something like it."

"There must be a cure, some kind of counter-spell," said Sam. "What kind of curse is it? Was it something that happened while you were on a hunt?"

"Nah." And, because Dean knew Sam wouldn't rest now until he knew every single detail: "Bobby and me, we investigated the damn thing, and... from the timing of it, most likely guess is it was the demon. Probably thought he'd get one last jolly in before he got sucked back to hell."

"Okay," said Sam. He was starting to look stunned, like the truth of what Dean had said was sinking in. "The demon. Right, that makes sense."

"Don't do that. Don't beat yourself up over it," Dean told him. "There was nothing you could have done."

Dean could tell Sam was already trying to think of solutions - he had his 'concentrating deeply, do not disturb' face on - but it wasn't going to work, and it made Dean's gut ache to watch him do it.

"Bobby and I went over everything - I swear, we looked over _everything_, every fucking book and script and fucking _tablet_, and we couldn't find anything. There's nothing that can break it. Damn demon covered all his tracks."

_Get it through your skull, Sam. Just - be here. That's all I need from you._

"How do you even know you've looked at everything?" said Sam. He shook his head. "No way. There's gotta be something you missed."

"Sam, I'm dying."

"Like _hell_ you are."

"I _am_, okay? There's no way you can stop it this time." Dean had already gotten enough second chances, anyway. There was no way he was going to try for fourths or fifths.

It sucked, yeah, and it pissed him the hell off, and he was going to miss Sam like hell - if you even could miss people when you were dead - but he was _done_. The demon was dead now, or at least gone for good, and Sam was finally safe. Dean couldn't ask for more.

"Listen," Dean said, trying to make Sam understand. "Sure, I wish we could figure something out. I don't like it anymore than you do. But, you gotta see this the way I see it, okay? I've only got a couple months left, and... I don't want to spend them trying to find solutions that don't exist."

Sam tried to laugh again, but it came out in a harsh gasp. "I can't fucking believe this."

"Yeah, and you think I like it any better?" Dean said angrily. "It's not a fucking picnic, okay? I -" He cut himself off, knew he should've just shut his goddamn mouth, but it was too late for that. Way too late.

Sam was silent for a moment, though, so maybe that was it, maybe he'd stop. Dean didn't want to think about what was going to happen to him. He didn't want to think about what he'd be leaving behind.

"It's just that I thought..." Sam spoke quietly, his eyes trained on the sky, on the thin trees around them. "I thought we'd really done it, you know? I thought we'd won."

"We did," said Dean. "The yellow-eyed demon's gone, isn't he?"

Sam's mouth twisted, and he just shook his head and looked at Dean like he was crazy.


	2. like some passing afternoon

PART TWO: _like some passing afternoon_

 

Sam waited while they walked back to the car. He waited while Dean walked over to the soda machine and bought a Mountain Dew, still pretending like everything was fine. He even waited until they were both seated in the Impala before saying, "Tell me."

Dean gave him a hard look and leaned against the passenger-side window, his arms crossed and shoulders curled defensively. "Tell you what?"

"No, I mean," Sam paused, took a breath, and tried not to scream at Dean for putting on the same old act, even now. The thought of _Dean, dead, Dean dead, dead Dean_ kept circling in his mind. "Tell me what the curse is doing. What's wrong with you?"

Dean bit his lip, rubbed at his face. Sam was suddenly struck by how old Dean looked, and it wasn't just the way his hair was starting to go prematurely gray at the temples. He looked tired. His eyes were bloodshot and the crow's feet at the corners were getting deeper. The shock-white scars the demon had left on his face were starting to blend with the growing paleness of his skin.

Dean looked like _shit_. How had Sam not noticed?

"It's nothing concrete, Sam. It's just a bunch of symptoms all mashed up together in a blender." Dean stared straight ahead at nothing, lips curled. "Fatigue, nausea, diarrhea. Weird bruises in the shapes of demonic symbols. Eyesight's sensitive." He turned to Sam. "And sometimes I piss blood and it feels like my dick's on fire. Pretty soon, my organs are gonna start shutting down. Had enough?"

Yes, thought Sam, but he refused to rise to Dean's baiting. "When were you going to tell me?"

"I just did."

"But you can't just -" Sam stopped himself, glared out at the road ahead of them.

"Sam," and Dean sounded exhausted. "Can we just not do this? Can we just..."

Sam swallowed. "Dean, I can't _not_ do this."

Dean was silent a moment. "Yeah," he said finally. "I know."

Blinking back the burn in his eyes, Sam started to go over the information Dean had given him. Curse... demon... Dean dying. He couldn't make his brain work, and Dean had given him fuck-all to go on. Sam would have to ask Dean for his and Bobby's notes, but not now. Later. When Sam could think straight.

"Hey, we gonna move any time soon here?" Dean's voice jolted Sam from his thoughts, and he realized that they were still sitting in the car. He hadn't even put the key in the ignition.

"Yeah," said Sam. "Just, give me a second."

Dean seemed to expect Sam to just give up, but there was no way in hell that was going to happen. Sam had saved Dean before, he could do it again. He _would_ do it again.

And besides, Dean had lost enough to the demon. Sam still woke up some days wondering why he had been the one to emerge from that last battle unscathed, while Dean had been the one hospitalized for two weeks. Hell, Dean had looked like he'd been shoved through a cheese grater. Even now, scar tissue marred one side of Dean's jaw and ran thin lines of white through his right eyebrow.

Sam had lost enough to the demon over the years, and there was no way he would let the demon have _this_. Not his brother. Not Dean.

Dean was right, though, about finding the cure. Sam could do that on his own, and Dean wouldn't have to worry about it.

In the meantime, Sam was going to be at Dean's side every moment until Dean was sick of him, and quite possibly every moment past that. If Dean thought anything else, he was crazy.

"Seriously," said Dean. "Sometime today?"

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," said Sam. He started the car.

 

*

 

Sam was getting That Look, all big unhappy eyes and determined jaw. It made Dean feel itchy. That Look of Sam's was usually reserved for grieving widows, sad puppies and suicidal spirits, not _Dean_. When That Look was turned on Dean, it usually resulted in carnage, mayhem, and Sam getting whapped soundly upside the head until he cut it out.

Of course, it also usually resulted in Sam figuring out some way to save the day, but Dean wasn't holding his breath this time.

"Stop looking at me like that," said Dean.

"I'm not looking at you," Sam said immediately, which would have carried more weight if he hadn't been staring at Dean for the past two minutes.

When Sam looked back over at him, cautiously, Dean offered him a pasted-up fake smile, just smarmy enough to get under Sam's skin. Sam turned back to the road, and Dean could see the little muscle in Sam's jaw flexing.

"You wanna stop here?" said Sam. He kept watch on Dean out of the corner of his eye. "For the night, I mean."

"Whatever," Dean replied, and Sam turned into the motel's parking lot and turned off the ignition. The light from the vacancy sign cast watery white light down through the windshield, and for a moment, Dean felt like they were under the ocean.

"I feel like I should be saying something." Sam stared out the window, his hand still gripped around the keys in the ignition like he'd forgotten what to do with them.

Dean grimaced. "Yeah, you usually do."

Sam coughed out something that sounded like a laugh, and Dean looked over at him, startled. Sam was _smiling_.

Sam looked back at him. "I really missed you, you know," Sam said, and his grin abruptly turned down at the corners. "Look, I just want you to know that I -"

"And, there we go, ladies and gentlemen, that's enough of the Sam Winchester Moping Hour," Dean interrupted. "And I am freaking _starving_, so let's check in and order some pizza, and I won't have to listen to your 'woe is us' routine, okay?"

"All right," said Sam. He looked so forlorn that Dean broke his own rule, reached over and squeezed Sam's shoulder with his bad hand. Dean wasn't particularly surprised when Sam covered his hand with his own and squeezed back hard, like the world was ending.

They sat in the Impala under the light of the Justice Fishermen's Lodge Motel sign, three days after Dean had shown up on Sam's doorstep, and Dean forgot all the other shit and just soaked in the fact that his little brother was alive, warm and well under his grip.

 

*

 

Dean entered the room with two coffees and a bag full of McGriddles and cheap apple pies. Somehow he managed to balance his load and still brandish a crumpled and refolded newspaper at Sam's innocent, still-trying-to-sleep form.

"Hey, I got an actual case for us," Dean said.

Sam blinked at Dean blearily. "Yeah?"

Dean dumped the McGriddles on the bed and set one of the coffees on Sam's stomach. Sam yelped, but managed to grab the cup before it tipped over and scalded various important bits of anatomy. Dean waggled the newspaper in Sam's face.

"Get this," said Dean. "Three mysterious disappearances in the woods up in New York state, all in the past two months. Some creepy place called Hemlock Lake."

Sam squinted at Dean and the newspaper, noticing that Dean was still wearing his sunglasses. The last time Dean had worn sunglasses every day had been when they were kids, the summer when Dean had watched The Blues Brothers for the fifth time. Dean had been humming _het 'em up, move 'em out, rawhide_ under his breath for days, and kept giving passing police cars a speculative glance.

Sam had always thought that Dean somehow missed his calling. When he found himself wondering if that made him Elwood or Jake, Sam decided it was better just to drop the thought entirely and get some caffeine into his system.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" said Dean, and threw the newspaper at Sam's head. Yeah, Dean would be Jake. He had that Belushi charm.

"Nothing," said Sam. He took a careful sip of the coffee and nearly scalded his tongue off. "_Shit_. So, what's this case?"

"Three teenagers, all boys, disappear in the area of Hemlock Lake. One washes up on the shore of the lake, drowned. Another one? They found _pieces_. Bits of his bones with all the flesh stripped off. They haven't found the third guy, but what are you willing to bet he's met a pretty nasty end, too?"

"Huh." Sam took another sip of coffee, but it hadn't cooled down any and he burned his mouth again. "That's odd, though. Different M.O. each time. Are there any other patterns, or is this just a recent thing?"

Dean shrugs. "I couldn't find much online. But, get this - they have a local ghost. Some Indian chick that dove into the lake to escape some dudes from a neighboring tribe that were trying to kill her. Apparently, she haunts the lake now."

Sam grabbed a McGriddle. "So, what, she's just now decided to start drowning _and_ skinning people?"

Dean shrugged. "Hey, don't ask me. Ask the locals."

"So we're going to New York, then."

"Looks like." Dean paused, then muttered, "We might have to take a detour into New York City first. The family of one of the boys lives there."

"The Big Apple? Really."

"Yeah, really," said Dean snippily.

"Awesome."

Sam had only been to New York City once, even though his dad and Dean had been there a few times on some hunts. Sam had gone as part of a class trip in his sophomore year at Stanford; that was how he'd met Jess. They'd wandered through the Met together for three hours, then they'd ditched the rest of the group to go get coffee. It had been one of the best days of Sam's life.

"Hey," Dean said suddenly, "What are you doing these days, anyway?"

Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean. "Huh?"

Dean made a swirling gesture with his hand, and Sam wondered at himself that he actually understood what Dean was asking.

"I told you. I have an internship -"

"Right, right, environmental whatsits. That's very granola of you. But why the hell are you there?" Dean gave him some intense look that Sam couldn't read. "Weren't you gonna do the whole law school thing?"

"So?" Sam shrugged. "I changed my mind."

"And your internship." Dean's brow was furrowed. "They're okay with you randomly taking off for weeks at a time?"

"Nah," said Sam, finally managing to take a sip of coffee that didn't scald his tastebuds. "Are you kidding? I didn't even give notice. They've probably found someone else by now."

"Jesus," muttered Dean. "So, you're okay with losing your job, just like that."

"It wasn't like I was going to be there forever, Dean."

"But you just don't _care_?"

Sam set down his coffee cup. "No. I don't care. I _didn't_ care. Don't you get it? I've been waiting for you."

And that was it, really.

It hadn't been the first time Sam had trouble adjusting to "normal" life. He'd been distracted, lonely, finding it hard to concentrate on classes that should have been easy, but that was something Sam was expecting. When he had first shown up at Stanford, it had taken Jess's influence to help bring Sam into the fold of normalcy. It had taken her love and attention to make Sam's new life seem _worth_ something. But the second time around, Sam wasn't nearly prepared to find someone else to fill that role.

So Sam waited; he stayed in school, and he graduated with a good GPA, and he got a job, and he got an apartment, and he got a roommate and some friends, and all along, he made damn sure that none of it actually meant anything at all.

Sam knew that Dean would come back eventually; he didn't want anything tying him down when it was time to go.

Dean, though, was looking at Sam like he'd never seen him before.

"Waiting for - what the hell is going on with you?" Dean said angrily. "This was your fucking dream, and you're just -"

Sam shook his head. "It wasn't my dream, okay? It used to be, but my dream got screwed up. This… this was just me trying to get it back, and it didn't work."

"Why didn't it work?"

_Because you weren't part of it,_ Sam didn't say. _Because I'm never going to be that same stupid kid again. Because the part of me that gave a shit about two kids and a picket fence is broken and I might never get it back. _

Because I don't care about anything but you, and that's never going to change.

Dean just stared at Sam for a long minute, waiting for him to say something. Then he shook his head. "Fine, whatever. Don't tell me."

He turned around and started rifling through his duffel. Sam stared at the back of Dean's head, willing himself to speak, but in the end, it was so much easier just to let Dean be angry.

 

*

 

They stopped again in Akron, Ohio, because Dean was feeling sick. He waved off Sam's attempts to help, cursing Sam in between his bouts with the toilet bowl. Finally, Sam left Dean alone and disappeared off to a nearby library, laden with Dean and Bobby's extensive notes on the curse.

When Sam came back to the motel a few hours later, his face lined with disappointment, Dean pretended not to notice. He'd warned Sam that there was no hope, and yet the kid had to go and have some anyway. It was no good.

Sam turned on the bedside lamp, and Dean winced, the sudden light making his head feel like it was going to explode. "Uh, Sam? Can you -" but Sam was already switching it off.

"Shit, shit, sorry." He glanced over at Dean and shoved his hands in his pockets, restless. "Do you need anything?"

Dean shook his head and shivered a little under the covers. "No, I'm fine. I'll be fine in a couple hours, I - these things don't last long. Once it's dark, I can drive."

Sam paced a little, then came over to Dean's bed and sat down beside him. "Can I see?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but presented Sam with his arm. There was a sickly-purple bruise on the underside of his forearm, rimmed with burst veins. Sam took Dean's arm with warm fingers and traced the outline of the bruise. Dean shivered again, but not from cold, and he held his breath until Sam let go of him.

"Are there any more?"

Dean closed his eyes and nodded, too exhausted to joke or deflect. God, he hated himself these days. Weak, useless. He felt Sam drawing back the blankets, then Sam's fingers skating along his thigh, slowly cataloging the bruises and their shapes. Everything had been in the notes he'd given Sam, but Dean knew that Sam needed to see for himself. Otherwise Sam would be convinced that they were missing something.

Sam's fingers traveled up under Dean's T-shirt, making him flinch, and Sam pulled the shirt back to expose Dean's stomach.

The pause was long enough that Dean opened his eyes. Sam seemed to sense that Dean was watching him, and he met Dean's gaze, his eyes full of some dark emotion Dean couldn't identify.

"Jesus, Dean," said Sam. "I can't believe you didn't say something."

"They don't hurt," said Dean, and he tugged his shirt back down. "They're just annoying. I can't say I enjoy being some demonic curse's doodle pad."

"Yeah," Sam said quietly, and he drew the covers up to Dean's shoulders, tucking him in like a five year old. Dean would have protested - that kind of shit made his skin crawl on a good day, much less a day where it actually felt _good_ to get tucked in -- but Dean decided to be selfish and enjoy the moment. It had been a long time since Dean had been touched by someone he loved.

Sam sat there for a moment, then got up and moved to the other bed. "I'll wake you later," he said quietly. "If you're feeling well enough then, we can drive for a couple more hours. We'll make New York by tomorrow afternoon."

Dean snuggled further into the covers, still feeling the echo of Sam's touch on his skin. "Sounds like a plan," he said quietly.

He slept soundly for the first time in months. By the time Sam gently shook him awake, Dean was ready to drive the Impala again; he still felt exhausted, but it was his normal level of exhaustion, not the crippling illness of the past few hours.

Dean closed his eyes and smiled. He'd made it through another wave of sickness and still not given in to the inevitable, and for the first time, he was glad.

He was still shuffling his way around a yawning Sam, trying to find his socks, when he remembered a scrap of his dream. It had been a good one, Dean thought. For some reason he felt like his dad must have been in it; Dean had the distinct impression that his dad had been proud of him. A good dream. There wasn't much more Dean could ask for, these days.

Dean found his socks just in time for Sam to toss him the car keys. Dean's reflexes were slowed with sleep, and he almost didn't catch them before they hit him in the forehead.

"Watch out," said Dean, "You trying to kill me early?"

Sam just smiled.

 

*

 

Although one of the victims was originally from a small town near Hemlock Lake, the families of two of the boys lived deep within the sprawling metropolitan wilds of New York City. It was bad enough that they had to set foot in the city itself, but even worse was the fact that Sam argued they should park the Impala and take the subway. It would be easier than trying to find parking where they needed to go, he said. As usual, the smug little fucker was right.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of the subway," said Sam.

"Shut the fuck up," said Dean. "Why are you standing that close to the edge? Jesus Christ, Sam, do you _want_ to get decapitated?"

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean and turned back to the tracks, leaning over to watch for the train. "You're totally shitting your pants, dude," Sam said, then, before Dean could protest, "Here we go, this one's ours."

Dean pushed onto the subway car through the confused jostling of passengers, keeping an eye on Sam's broad shoulders. Sam found a spot to stand and grabbed onto one of the metal bars, and Dean followed suit.

"I fucking hate public transportation," Dean growled.

More people shoved onto the car after Dean, forcing him to take a couple steps closer to Sam. The train started, and Dean lost his balance and lurched into Sam's side.

"Ow!" Sam swore under his breath and elbowed Dean away. Dean pretended not to notice that Sam's shove doubled as a support to help Dean regain his balance. He elbowed Sam back and planted his feet firmly, tightening his grip on the bar overhead.

Even with the support of the bar, Dean had to lean into Sam with every turn and twist in the track. Sam was turned slightly away from Dean, his head above those of most of the other people on the car, and Dean found himself with a sudden mouthful of Sam's shoulder when the subway train stopped.

"Not our stop yet," said Sam. Dean tried to ignore how goddamned good Sam smelled. Coffee and sweat under the stronger scent of fabric softener. With a mental sigh of defeat, Dean closed his eyes against the subway and just lived in Sam-world for a moment, inhaling deeply through his nose.

The doors closed, leaving the car a little less crowded than it had been before. Dean took the opportunity to grab a seat that had opened up next to Sam's legs, squeezing in between a big, burly construction worker and a smokin' hot businesswoman.

He was sitting close enough to the businesswoman that her skirt kind of rode up her leg a little as Dean squirmed to get comfortable, and for a moment, Dean reconsidered his stance on public transportation. That was _fine._ The woman wasn't wearing hose, and Dean could see the tiny, almost invisible blonde hairs on her upper thigh where she hadn't bothered to shave. Dude. For a moment, Dean wondered how bad he'd get arrested if he pretended to straighten her skirt for her.

Sam kicked Dean in the ankle.

Dean sent Sam a glare, then caught glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. There was a little, wizened old woman sitting on the bench across from Dean. She was curled into an old, torn purple shawl that almost covered her completely, and her bony little feet were planted firmly on the floor. She was barefoot.

Dean got a crawling sensation, and looked up at the woman's face again. Her mouth was nothing but a crooked slit across her face, unsmiling and caked with brown at the corners. She regarded Dean steadily from tiny, wrinkled little eyes that gleamed puke-yellow in the subway lighting, and kept looking even after Dean pointedly stared back.

And, okay, that was just not natural.

Dean kicked Sam in the ankle.

"Dean, it's just a subway, it's not going to eat you." Sam sounded amused. Oh, sure. That was all well and good when there _didn't_ happen to be a psychotic old lady troll thing staring Dean down.

Dean caught Sam's eye and made motions with his eyebrows. He crossed his arms and surreptitiously pointed at the old crone, calculating an angle where he knew she couldn't see him gesturing. Sam ruined his fine efforts at subterfuge by immediately turning and looking right at the lady.

The crone stopped staring at Dean long enough to stare at Sam, instead. Sam nodded and smiled politely, then made an apologetic expression with his forehead that Dean recognized as Sam-speak for _sorry about my brother, he's a retard_. Dean kicked Sam in the ankle again.

Dude, the bitch had not even _blinked_.

"Dean," said Sam. His polite smile was kind of strained.

"What do you think," Dean stage-whispered. "Zombie? Troll? Maybe a harpy."

Sam's smile looked _really_ strained.

The subject in question let out a low chuckle, dashing Dean's hopes that she was senile enough not to understand he'd been talking about her.

"I am quite alive, my dear," she said raspily. Her voice was a cross between a croak and a cough. "And when I checked in the mirror this morning, I saw no wings." She tilted her head back and looked down her nose at Dean - and it was a very, very long nose.

"Coulda fooled me," Dean muttered.

"Well," she said, and there was an odd lilt to her tone, something that rang false as a mask. Dean just did not have a good feeling about this lady. "You're an interesting pair, aren't you?"

"What the hell _are_ you?" Dean demanded. He ignored Sam's desperate stomp on his toes; could barely feel it anyway, thank God for steel-toed boots.

The old lady just cackled, and the train ground to a halt. The doors farted open, and she got to her feet with an odd sway. Without another word, she drifted out of the car, and it took Dean a second to realize that Sam was following her. Shit, apparently it was their stop.

When Dean caught up to Sam, there was no sign of the woman.

"What the hell was that?" asked Sam. He seemed more curious than pissed, which meant...

"You thought she was weird, too, didn't you," said Dean.

"No!" said Sam. "Okay, yes."

Dean stabbed a finger in the air, victorious.

"But it doesn't mean anything, Dean. If we got suspicious of every weird person on the subway, we'd be here for years."

"She was giving me a _look_, Sam."

"Dude, not every little old lady is out to get you."

"You never know." Dean took a few steps, then turned around. "You coming or what?"

Sam heaved a long-suffering sigh and followed.

 

*

 

They talked with the parents of the kids, but got nowhere. The folks were grieving, and one of the mothers was crying so hard it made Dean's head ache in sympathy, but they didn't know anything. Dean and Sam left them with fake business cards and told them to, if they remembered anything, "anything at all, just call this number and ask for either Mr. Duchovny or Mr. Anderson," and then they headed back to the Impala.

They rented a room in a nearby rundown hotel for some exorbitant price, and Dean crashed almost immediately. His cheeks burned from having to admit that he had been exhausted by what was essentially a day of research, but Dean reasoned that it was _New York_ \- that was enough to suck the energy out of anybody sane.

Dean fell asleep to the comfortable sound of Sam leafing through books. Pages rustled, and occasionally Sam would pause and write something down, his pen scratching quietly at the paper. Dean had the flitting thought that this would be a good way to die; if he couldn't go out in a blaze of glory, then just this: sinking slowly into sleep with Sam sitting next to him, breathing evenly and keeping watch.

Hours later, Dean was jolted awake by the sound of the door opening. After a heart stopping moment where he realized he was completely unarmed and didn't even know where his knife was, he recognized the bumbling figure as Sam.

He listened to Sam rummage through one of their bags, then stumble his way to the bathroom in the dark. When Sam turned the light on in the bathroom, it hurt Dean's eyes, so he closed them quickly and continued to pretend he was asleep.

A few minutes later, Sam came back out. Dean could hear him walking with a slow, careful pace. Too careful, like Sam was overly concerned about where his feet were going.

All of a sudden, Dean realized that his brother was stinking drunk.

Too annoyed to continue faking sleep, Dean rolled over to face where Sam was standing, raising himself up on his elbow. "Dude, where've you been?"

Sam stopped dead, wobbling slightly, and looked at him. "Hey," he said slowly. "Sorry I... woke you. You okay?"

Dean sighed. "I'm fine, Sam. Or at least I was fine until my brother stumbled in completely blitzed. What the hell are you doing?"

"I -" Sam shook his head, his movements jerky, then he sat down on the edge of Dean's bed like the motion had made him dizzy. "Nothing, I'm not doing anything." He let out a laugh. "Isn't that the problem, though?"

"Sam, just go to sleep. You know how you get."

Sam made a sniffly noise and turned to Dean. "How I get?"

"You know," Dean said uncomfortably. "You turn into a whiny bitch when you're drunk, all right?"

Sam regarded him way too steadily. "You used to like getting me drunk. Remember? When we were kids."

"You were less whiny back then." Which was a blatant lie; when they were kids, Sammy had been whiny as _hell_ when he was drunk, but it had also been damn hilarious to hear him go on long, rambling tirades about school and Dad and the popularity of Cheerios and shit.

"I _know_ when it changed," said Sam. "I know when you decided you didn't like me drunk anymore."

Sam reached out and put a hand on Dean's chest, like he was going to push him back down to lie on the bed, but then he just left it there.

"Sammy," said Dean. "Seriously, man, get some sleep. What time is it?"

"It was that _night_," said Sam. "You remember that night? Nah, 'course you do."

_That night_. Dean swallows, remembers _that night_, the night he decided he had to leave Sam at Stanford and not come back. They'd been at a bar, a little dive off the edge of campus, and Sam had been drunk and laughing, his body pressed close to Dean's in their tiny booth.

 

*

 

California was hot, but it was the kind of hot that let Dean relax, leading to no more discomfort than sweat and a craving for beer. His shirt was sticking to his back a little, and Sam had pressed his mouth right up against Dean's ear. Dean knew, _knew_ that Sam was close enough that he could feel the shudder that ran through Dean, the way Dean trembled at the feel of Sam's hot, moist breath.

_Hey,_ Sam had said, _hey, hey, hey. You're stayin', right? Cause I - it'd be so much fun, Dean, we'd have a blast, you know, you and me could go hunting whenever and just, come back. Come back and stay here while I finish school, and we could have,_ and Sam paused, his boisterous plan-making suddenly taking a turn for hesitant. _Like, an apartment together._

Dean had closed his eyes, leaned his shoulder into Sam's. He meant it, Dean realized. Sammy really meant it.

_Yeah. Yeah, Sam, that'd be - yeah._

_It'd be great,_ Sam said, finishing Dean's stammered reply. He leaned back and grinned so huge that Dean thought Sam's jaw might pop out of its socket, his teeth bright and dazzling. _Good. I - good._ His hand curled around Dean's shoulder, intimate. Like it meant something.

Maybe this was it, Dean thought. Maybe this was _his_, all this. Sammy and a real home and the demon gone. Maybe this was his happy ending.

Sam, still smiling, glanced out over the bar. Dean saw the exact moment when something - someone - caught his attention. His eyes widened a little, and his grin took on a wicked edge.

_Hey, Dean,_ said Sam, _Look at her. Over there._

Dean's face froze. He glanced in the direction Sam was looking and saw about ten people who could classify as a "her."

_Go for it,_ Dean said, ignoring the gnawing in his gut. _You can do anything you want now, remember?_

Sam looked at him, as intently as he watched the road. _You sure?_

Dean laughed it off. _What are you asking me for, man?_

A pause, then a nod. _I'll be right back, okay?_ Sam said.

Dean could only watch, the pit of his gut burning in sudden, fierce, selfish jealousy, as Sam squeezed his shoulder once and slid out of the booth to go talk to the blonde number seated at a table across the room with some of her friends. The blonde was already laughing, flipping her hair self-consciously, intent on Sam's approach.

Dean watched Sam introduce himself. He watched Sam charm her, compliment her taste in reading material, and even though he couldn't hear any of the conversation, he imagined that Sam was inviting her to get coffee with him, or something else equally sensitive and endearing. Dean watched every second of it, right up until Sam laughed and touched the girl's shoulder, natural as anything. Then with a nod at Sam to let him know he'd be back at the hotel, Dean had left.

There was no way Sam hadn't noticed Dean's reaction, his shudder at Sam's mouth next to his ear. Dean felt sick. The girl - the girl was a message for Dean to back off, before he did something stupid and unforgivable.

But of course, she wasn't _just_ that, no, because Sam was an honorable type, Sam probably wouldn't even leave before she woke up in the morning. He'd probably stick around long enough to make coffee. Maybe even long enough to marry her and have lots of disgusting, perfect little babies.

That night. _That night_ was the night Dean turned into the most selfish prick in the world and abandoned Sam, not just leaving for a little while but staying away for almost two years, just so he wouldn't have to watch his brother fall in love with someone else again.

 

*

 

"It was that night in that hotel," Sam finished blearily, "The one with those creepy dolls."

Dean breathed.

"I asked you to kill me, once." Sam paused. "And I'm sorry, did I tell you I was sorry?"

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean said softly. "You said you were sorry."

"Well, I am," Sam insisted. "But I know you didn't like it, didn't like me asking, and also - you didn't like that I," and Sam broke off, looked at Dean like his heart was breaking.

"It's okay, Sammy," said Dean. He smoothed Sam's hair back, ignoring the drunken consternation on Sam's face as he tried to figure out how to phrase whatever else he wanted to say. "It's okay. Just go to sleep."

Sam finally nodded, and shifted further onto Dean's bed.

"Hey, hey, whoa there," sputtered Dean, "I meant in your own bed, dude. I'm not putting up with your kicking all night."

Sam gave him a bleak grin. "Whatever, dude," he said, sounding a little more sober. "I'm not the one who kicks. You," and Sam suddenly sighed, and before Dean knew it, he was flat on his back with Sam's huge hands pushing him into the mattress and kneading at his arms. Sam slung one leg over Dean's hip, like he wanted to pin him down, and breathed heavy against Dean's jaw.

"Sam -"

"Dean," said Sam, and his lips traced over the line of Dean's chin and up to Dean's mouth, barely touching.

"You're drunk," Dean murmured. His lips brushed Sam's as he spoke.

"Yeah," Sam whispered. "Does it matter?"

Dean closed his eyes against Sam, the shape of him half-shadow, Sam's eyes bright with liquor and something else that Dean didn't want to see. "Yeah. It does."

Sam didn't move.

"Sam," said Dean. "_Get off of me._"

Slowly, slowly, Sam inched off of him, collapsing into the leftover space on the bed and flinging his hand over his eyes. Dean recognized the pose as Sam trying not to cry, and he quickly rolled over, curling into the blankets and away from Sam's body.

After about twenty minutes passed, Dean heard Sam fall asleep, heard his breathing getting deeper and slower, but he couldn't quite get there himself. All he could do was think about Sam's touch, Sam's mouth hovering over his. Sam, offering something that he knew damn well Dean could never accept.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. That was all it really was, and that was the part that hurt most. Sam was feeling guilty, and he willing to do anything to make Dean happy, anything at all. Even - what? Kiss him? Hold him? More?

No way. Dean didn't want that. He didn't want any of it.

He stayed awake all night, staring into the shadowy corners of the room until his eyes burned.

 

*

 

The next morning, Dean was so quiet that Sam felt like puking for more reasons than just the hangover. Fuck. He was such a goddamned idiot.

"So," Sam said, trying to sound at least somewhat gung-ho, "I was thinking we've probably done enough research around here, and that maybe we should check out the lake itself, see how the situation is there."

"Sounds good," said Dean. He continued packing his duffel bag, shoving another pair of dirty socks in the pocket on the side.

Sam shouldn't have gotten drunk, he really shouldn't have, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. It wasn't every day that a guy realized his brother was right all along; that there was a curse he can't break, and a life he couldn't save. A life more dear to him than anything.

Sam was pretty sure he was still reeling, although part of it could have been the mass quantities of alcohol he'd consumed the night before. Sam hadn't wanted to give up, but every new symbol and every new notation about the curse's structure had reinforced the same outcome that Dean and Bobby had found. Dean was going to die, and there was no cure. Not even a loophole.

He took a breath. "Dean," said Sam. Dean flinched, almost imperceptibly, and Sam grit his teeth.

"Sam," Dean parroted, and zipped up the duffel, hoisting it onto his shoulder. "Okay, let's go."

It was a long drive to Hemlock Lake, over five hours, but they'd gotten an early enough start that they should be able to make it before the libraries closed. Even so, it took them almost an hour just to get out of New York City and on the road. Dean didn't say a word the entire time, just shoved his sunglasses onto his nose and leaned against the window.

When they got near Hemlock Lake, they drove up Route 15 and stopped in Livonia, one of the nearest towns with a library. Dean begged off of research, claiming that he'd just wander into a few shops or diners and get the lay of the land.

"You know me, Sam," said Dean. "I'm the people person, and - well, you're the guy that looks at the microfiche all day, cause I'm sure as hell not going to."

"Gee, thanks," said Sam, but Dean waved him off and ambled down the street. Sam watched him go, his heart feeling shriveled and dead in his chest.

 

*

 

Dean stopped in a tiny bookstore full of motivational posters and Precious Moments calendars. It was the first place he'd seen where someone might be willing to strike up a conversation, but he was wondering if information was worth having to stare at big-eyed ceramic cherubs.

The only person in the store was a big, gruff guy who sheepishly explained that he usually worked at the gas station down the road and was just there watching the store for his mother. "Is there anything you're looking for, though?" he asked. "We just got the newest Chicken Soup book in."

Jesus Christ. Dean was still waiting for them to come out with _Chicken Soup for the Demon Hunter's Soul_; until then, they weren't of much use to him.

"Nah, man, but I was wondering if you knew anything about that local ghost story," said Dean.

The guy's brow furrowed. "The one about the Holleran place?"

Dean blinked. "Actually, I meant the one about the lake."

"Oh!" Bookstore Guy's face lit up. "I love that one. The tale of Onnolee, the Indian maiden."

Dean squinted his eyes and mimed excitement. "That's the one. I'm curious, what's the version you've heard?"

The guy shrugged. "There aren't many versions that I know of, just the one. Back in the fourteenth century or so, this girl Onnolee was a member of the Munsee tribe. Her tribe got slaughtered by an enemy village, but Onnolee was spared and taken to the enemy chieftain."

"Right," said Dean, and nodded for him to go on. The guy smiled, his lips crinkling behind his heavy beard.

"Anyway, Onnolee stabbed the chieftain and killed him. She knew she'd be found and murdered for what she'd done, so she took off running. The other tribe took after her, with all these arrows flying and whatever, but Onnolee made it all the way to this crag overlooking Hemlock Lake, and she jumped."

"Cool girl," Dean nodded. "Sounds like a really old story, too. Have there been recent spottings?"

The guy shrugged. "Some kids say they seen her, but I doubt it. I don't think anybody's really seen her in over a hundred years, if they ever did. I mean, ghosts? It was probably just some trick of the light."

"Huh," said Dean. "Well, thanks for your help."

Dean begrudgingly bought a bookmark with a Bible quote on it, his little way of saying thanks to the guy for his help, then left to meet up with Sam. He had the feeling they were missing something.

 

*

 

"So, she showed me the town's earlier birth and death records, and that's the thing - nothing like this has happened before." Sam handed Dean a stack of printouts, like he thought Dean would actually need - or want - to look at them. "There's been a couple of drownings over the years, and some kid getting crushed by a wagon, but no pattern. Whatever this is, it started recently."

Dean took the printouts and pretended to read the first page. His eyes hurt pretty badly, but he didn't think Sam could tell from watching him. "Did your new girlfriend have anything else to show you?"

Sam sighed exasperatedly. "You mean, the librarian?"

"Yeah," said Dean. "What was her name? Helen?"

"_Heather_ dug up some eyewitness reports, some newer ones and some from about two hundred years ago," Sam continued, ignoring Dean's raised eyebrows, "And each account said the same thing: blue smoke, vapors, figure made of mist, et cetera. Some people said they saw Onnolee more clearly, but that's about it. Nothing that couldn't be explained by natural phenomena, and nobody said anything about the mist suddenly turning evil and skinning people."

"Huh," said Dean.

"Yeah," said Sam.

"Time to take a look for ourselves?"

"You got it."

Neither of them mentioned the previous night.

 

*

 

Onnolee wasn't there.

They hiked in circles until night had fallen, trying to find any trace of EMF, but there was nothing. There was nothing by the lake's edge, either, even in the spot where the locals had found the one boy washed up on shore.

"She's not here," said Dean. "Nothing's here. What the fuck?"

Sam shook his head. He didn't have an answer. He shook the EMF reader a little, wondering if there was some kind of short or a loose battery.

Beside him, Dean suddenly stiffened.

"I knew it," said Dean. "I _knew it_."

Sam looked up, scanning the woods around them. He almost didn't see her; she was dressed all in brown fur and nets of sinew, and she blended in with the bark of the trees. Sam only saw her because of her eyes - shiny, black eyes glinting unblinkingly from the brush. She was looking right at him.

"It's the fucking crone," said Dean. "It's the fucking subway bitch, Sam."

Sam blinked, but the old woman was gone. He could still feel her stare; it had been alien and utterly _knowing_.

"Where the hell did she go?" whispered Sam, but the next moment, he had his answer. There was a rustle, another rustle, and then he and Dean were confronted by a small, rickety looking house.

At first, Sam thought the house was on stilts; then one of the stilts _moved_.

The house took a step closer.

"Dude," said Dean, "You have got to be kidding me."


	3. body is a cage

PART THREE: _body is a cage_

 

"Shit," said Sam. "Shit, shit, shit!"

"Isn't that _my_ line?" Dean snapped, but Sam ignored him.

"This isn't a ghost, Dean -"

"No _shit_, Sam!"

The house tilted toward them on thin, spindly legs. Sam didn't want to see what it would do next.

"Run!" yelled Sam, and pulled Dean along, afraid that if given half a chance, Dean would stay, start shooting things, and get himself trampled to pieces.

"Okay, okay," Dean said, and kept up with Sam easily. They tore through underbrush and thick piles of dirt and pine needles, and when Sam nearly slipped on a patch of leaves, Dean hauled him back up and they kept running.

They stopped for a moment to catch their breath.

"I don't think it's following us," Sam panted.

"Sam," said Dean. "It's a fucking _building_."

"It had legs, Dean."

"I know that. And now that we've both stated the fucking obvious, what are we going to do about a fucking _building_ with legs?"

Sam just shook his head and stared back into the forest, straining his hearing for any sign that the house had found them. There was nothing.

"Goody," said Dean after a moment. "More research."

 

*

 

"Hey," Sam said to the librarian. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and stared at Sam, looking rather amused by Sam's breathless greeting. "Um, Heather. Thanks for your help yesterday, but I decided to go in a different direction with my folklore paper. Do you have a section about, um, Russian fairy tales?"

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam, and Sam just shrugged at him. Heather-the-librarian gave them a confused look, but nodded.

"Russian? Yes, of course. It's over in the corner, near the children's books. Was there anything in particular you were looking for?"

"Nah," Dean interjected. "We'll just browse and, uh, find him something for his -" Dean trailed off and jabbed his thumb at Sam's chest. "For his folklore paper. About Russian whatsits."

"The story of Koschei the Deathless is a good one," Heather remarked, then turned back to her computer.

Sam elbowed Dean, and they trekked over to the section Heather had indicated. Sam immediately spotted a couple of heavy, cloth-bound tomes that he eagerly pulled out and plopped on a nearby table. Dean watched Sam flip through the pages, his nose mere inches from the page, then Dean wandered over to the children's section.

"Dean!" Sam hissed urgently a few minutes later. "I've found her."

"So have I." He waved the thin book at Sam. An illustrated collection of Russian fairytales for kids, with a cover that showed a wizened, comical looking figure and a tiny house with chicken legs. Not exactly the same as what they had seen, but too close for coincidence. "See? It's even got pictures."

"Great, that's perfect for your reading level," Sam said, but his mouth was tight.

Dean turned around the chair next to Sam's and straddled it. "So what are we dealing with, exactly? Is this chick the real deal? The actual Baba Yaga?"

"I dunno, man. But all the signs point to her." Sam pointed at the open book on the table, circling a passage with his finger. "Baba Yaga is a pretty familiar figure in Slavic mythology, and she's sometimes known as 'the dark lady,' but nobody really agrees on if she's a witch or some kind of forest spirit. She's hideously ugly, lives in a house with chicken legs," Sam paused and met Dean's eyes. "And she likes to eat kids."

"Right." Dean nodded. "So, we think that's what happened to the Miller kid? And the other one, the one they haven't found?"

"Has to be," said Sam. "It might also explain the drowned boy. That's why there's no apparent M.O. She's unpredictable."

"But why the hell would these kids approach her? Did she hunt them down?"

"Nah," Sam shook his head. "Two kids from New York City, all the way out here in the woods? That was a five hour drive, Dean, easy. No, they had to have known she was out here. A lot of the old legends talk about how even though Baba Yaga was dangerous, she could answer any question you asked her, grant wishes, you name it. She could even tell the future."

"But...?" There were always buts.

"But, before she'd tell you anything, you had to pass tests of purity and politeness, bring her gifts, stuff like that. And every time she answered a question, she aged a year."

"Well, hell." Dean thought of how old and crotchety that old lady had been, how ancient and _wrong_-feeling. "No wonder she's so pissed."

Sam snorted. "Yeah. But according to some tales, if you bring her blue roses, she can make a tea out of it that'll restore her youth."

"Well, dandy for her. So. How do we kill her - or should I say, it?" Baba Yaga may have the shape of an old woman, but Dean figured ordinary old ladies didn't kill and eat kids on a regular basis. This chick was a genuine monster.

"We don't," said Sam. "She's immortal."

"Shit." Dean paused. "Are we sure? We can't just keep asking her questions until she shrivels up?"

Sam snorted. "You really want to try talking her to death? That house could stomp us flat, man. Not to mention the mortar and pestle."

"Mortar and pestle?" Dean looked at the page where Sam was pointing. "Oh, no freaking way. She's supposed to fly in that thing? That's just crazy."

"Yeah, well, before last night we both would have said no freaking way to someone having a house with legs."

"Point." Dean stared at the page a moment longer, then shoved the book back toward Sam. "So, what else does it say? How can we get rid of her? We can't just let kids keep wandering out there and getting their heads chewed off."

"Any reason I'm suddenly your research slave?" Sam huffed. "You've got the book right in front of you."

Dean stiffened.

"Oh," said Sam. He seemed to suddenly have realized that Dean was still wearing his sunglasses. "Shit. Sorry. I forgot - your eyes."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean pushed away from the table. "I'll go look in one of the other books on the shelf."

"You don't have to."

"Oh, just shut the fuck up, Sam. It's not a big deal."

Sam sighed, but fell silent.

 

*

 

After a few hours of Sam cursing himself for being an asshole and Dean trying to pretend that his eyes weren't suffering from reading the fine print in the older books, they had found all the answers they could. Which meant they had found nothing.

"There's no way to get rid of her, Dean. I mean, we don't even know why she's here in the first place. Why does a witch from a freaking fairytale even end up living by a lake in New York?"

"Russian immigrants, dude," said Dean. "Carrying their beliefs to a new country. Like in Burkitsville. Wait -- wait. We're not finding anything in these books, right?"

"I think that's what I just said."

"But think about it. The answer's not in these books, but who'd be the one person liable to know?"

Sam looked at him with dawning comprehension. No. No way was Dean thinking what Sam thought he was thinking, but the excited gleam in Dean's eye said different.

"Oh, no," Sam said. "No fucking way. She'd never -"

"She'd have to!" Dean was grinning now, almost manic. "If we follow all the rules, like the stuff with the," he waved a hand -

"Blue roses? For her tea?"

"Yeah, that. If we do everything perfectly by the book, she'll _have_ to answer the question. So we ask her how we can make her get the hell out of Dodge."

"Dean, you're talking about going up against _Baba Yaga_. She's been around, in one form or another, for hundreds and hundreds of years. You really think it'll be that easy?"

Dean sobered. "Sam, we have to. Or else more kids are gonna get made into Lean Cuisines."

Sam nodded thoughtfully, but his attention was elsewhere. Dean gave him a curious look, but didn't ask. Sam figured Dean probably just thought he was brooding. Instead, Dean pulled a nickel from his pocket.

"Call it," said Dean.

"Heads," said Sam.

Sam grabbed the coin from the air before Dean could, and slapped it down on one wrist. He peeked. The nickel was Monticello-side-up. "It's heads."

"Cheater," said Dean.

"Hey, it doesn't really matter who asks, does it?" Sam handed the nickel back, and Dean looked at it suspiciously. "We're both gonna be there, so you can back me up. I'll just be the one asking the question."

"Sam," and Dean gave up eying the nickel and gave Sam a suspicious look instead. "You're not going to do something stupid, and, say, ask this witch lady anything else, are you?"

"You mean, like how to cure you?" Sam shook his head. "I can't say the thought didn't cross my mind."

"Yeah," said Dean. "Don't. It'd be the waste of a question. There's no cure. And we need to figure out how to take this bitch out of commission, before anyone else gets hurt. You _know_ that."

"Yeah, I know," said Sam. "I know."

Dean looked at him for a moment. "You swear?"

Sam met his eyes. "I swear. I may not like it, but - you're right. And the hunt comes first, anyway."

"Right." Dean kept looking at Sam a moment longer, almost like he didn't believe him, then Dean dropped his head, closed the book in front of him, and got up to put it back on the shelf.

Sam watched the side of Dean's face, the thin scars across Dean's cheek, and said nothing.

 

*

 

The nearest florist that carried blue roses was only a couple of towns away. Sam wondered exactly how many people knew that Baba Yaga lived in the forest; he'd half-expected that they'd have to drive back to New York to find the odd variety of rose, but the guy at the florist shop hadn't even seemed surprised when Sam had asked.

"What kind of blue are they supposed to be?" Dean asked. "Light blue? Navy blue? Periwinkle?"

"_Periwinkle_?" Sam laughed. "And you wonder why people always think we're gay, Dean?"

Dean bristled. "What? Periwinkle's a color."

"Yeah, and so's just _blue_, Dean. As long as the roses are some shade of blue, I think we're fine."

When they had the roses in hand - roses which were rather shriveled, and Sam suspected they were dyed, but it was probably as close as they were gonna get - they drove back out to Hemlock Lake. Dean shoved a gun in the back of his jeans and Sam followed suit, flipping his shirt over his waistline and ignoring the cold press of the barrel against his ass.

They had been walking for about a quarter mile when Sam realized that they had no idea where to find Baba Yaga. It was going to be really embarrassing if he and Dean had to wander the woods all day long trying to find a character from a Russian fairy tale.

No sooner had the thought occurred to Sam than there was a sudden creak from the branches overhead. Out of nowhere, a slight breeze gusted across their faces but stirred no leaves.

Dean looked up and gave Sam a hard elbow in the side. Baba Yaga was perched in the tree above, staring unblinkingly down at them. She seemed to scent the air, her beaked nose poking up, then she scuttled down the trunk with the ease of a construction worker on a stepladder. She came to a stop on the ground in front of them.

"Uh," said Sam. "Most respected Yaga, we have come to ask for a favor."

She shook her head.

"We brought blue roses," Sam continued. He held them out and hoped that the whole dyed-blue thing wasn't going to come back to bite them on the ass.

Baba Yaga shook her head again.

"Not 'we'," she said. "Either you - one-of-you asks, or none. Follow, then ask." And she shuffled off, slowly, like she was waiting for them to choose who would follow her.

Sam squeezed Dean's shoulder. "That's my cue, dude."

"What?" Dean stared at him. "No fucking way. No way are you going off with her, alone."

"I have to! If I don't go by myself, she's not going to answer the question. But there are rules - she'll have to follow them."

"Or so we think," Dean said, "But there's three dead kids and their families that say maybe she'll just kill you and eat your brains."

"Dean," said Sam.

Dean's nostrils flared and he clenched his jaw. "I really, really don't like this, Sam." Dean had his gun out already, too, which made Sam wince. All the books had said being polite was key; unfortunately, Dean's version of polite was usually pretty violent.

"It'll be fine. We're not going far, and I've got my gun." Sam squeezed Dean's shoulder again, and Dean made a huffing noise and shook Sam off.

"Fine," said Dean. "If you're not back in ten minutes, I'm coming after you."

"Got it." Sam took a deep breath, adjusted his grip on the bouquet of roses, and followed Baba Yaga into the woods.

 

*

 

Dean shifted on his feet, impatient for Sam to return. The crack of twigs under his boots almost disguised the sound of someone coming up behind him in the clearing; almost, but not quite.

He whirled around, gun cocked and ready to fire. The woman behind him reared back like a startled horse, then settled onto her heels, giving Dean a very familiar stare.

Dean blinked. If Baba Yaga was here, then who was Sam in the bushes with? Then, with a closer look, he could see that this Baba Yaga's clothing was slightly different; in fact, she looked more like the crone from the subway than the one who Dean had just seen in the trees.

He'd assumed that she'd just changed her clothes, but no - there were _two_ of them.

They were in such deep shit.

"The scar-faced boy," Baba Yaga said. "With his body so marked. You, you, scarred one, you may call me Mistress."

"What the hell am I, Harry Potter?" Dean kept his gun trained on the middle of her forehead, not sure if it would do any good at all to shoot. "If you're Baba Yaga, then who the hell is my brother off chatting up?"

Baba Yaga cocked her head to the side. The shawl slipped from her head and revealed a few scattered clumps of grey hair on her otherwise bald head. Her scalp was cracked and oozing.

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Oh, now that's just not pleasant."

"Watch your tongue," said Baba Yaga. "You are a fine specimen, but tasty, too. My sisters have needs."

"Sisters." Dean lowered the gun, slowly, since Baba Yaga hadn't made any move to come toward him.

The stories Sam had found in the older books... some of them had said there could be more than one Baba Yaga, but he and Sam hadn't even thought of it as a real possibility. They'd only seen one, or so they thought, so there must only _be_ one. Stupid. So stupid. Dean had lost his edge; he should have known better, and now Sammy was in trouble.

"There's what, three of you?"

"Yes," hissed Baba Yaga. "You have done your reading. That is wise."

"Yeah, well, that's me. I'm a wise one. I'm practically Yoda."

Baba Yaga took a few tottering steps forward, until she was only a few feet from Dean.

"Wise child, scar-faced child, you may have an answer."

Dean blinked. "What?"

Baba Yaga cocked her head again, to the other side this time. "An answer. You have a question, yes?"

"Uh," said Dean. "No offense, but what's with the freebie? Don't you expect some wine and flowers before you put out?"

"Heh." Baba Yaga flipped her shawl back into place. "Let us say simply that it is in my best interest to answer your question, boy."

Dean hadn't even thought about the possibility of asking his own question. The hunt came first, and he and Sam had assumed they'd only get the one chance. But if Dean could ask anything, absolutely anything...

"Okay," said Dean. "You're sure it's free?"

"I am always sure, sure," said Baba Yaga. "Ask. Go on. Let out your word tongues." Her voice was losing definition, turning into a hiss of air that Dean could barely make out.

Dean took a breath.

"How can I make sure Sam stays safe?" he said. "After I'm gone."

 

*

 

Baba Yaga took the roses, gave them a triumphant sniff. Apparently they met with her approval, and Sam's heart finally settled down in his chest. This might just work.

"Ask," said Baba Yaga.

There was no question in Sam's mind what question he would ask. No matter what he'd said to Dean, there was no way he was going to waste his question on an inquiry about Baba Yaga pest control, not when other things were so much more important.

"My brother," Sam said. "He's sick. A demon cursed him. What's the cure?"

 

*

 

Dean watched, faintly annoyed and startled, as Baba Yaga tilted her head back and laughed.

 

*

 

Sam watched, heart in his throat, as Baba Yaga tilted her head back and laughed.

"Oh, child," she said, still cackling.

She leaned forward, her breath rank against the side of Sam's neck.

 

*

 

Baba Yaga moved _fast_. Before Dean knew it, she was only inches away. She touched Dean's cheek with her fingers, her jagged nails scraping on his stubble. She was still chuckling, her breath a rank burble against Dean's skin.

"What the hell did I say?" Dean demanded, trying not to flinch back from her touch. He didn't want to show any sign of weakness in front of this bitch.

"Shh," Baba Yaga hissed. "Your question is not so simple. So many parts, parts, making up a path. Safe. What is safe? But the answer is so easy, easy. I will tell you, yes, tell you."

"Wait. There's a 'path'?" said Dean. "There's a way to keep him safe?"

"My child, I am Baba Yaga," she said. "Of course there is a way. One must merely have the strength to find the ingredients."

"I'll do it," said Dean. "What do I need? Is there some ritual?"

"No, no," she said, and bit the tip of his ear. Dean couldn't help but flinch this time, her sharp teeth nicking the skin. He angled his body away from hers, brought his gun up between them almost unconsciously, but Baba Yaga didn't seem to care.

"Your confusion, so delectable. You think he needs _things_ to keep him safe, like the makings of a soup? He is a boy, mortal, with mortal failings. Failings, the cracks where the wind gets in. Surely you know what I mean, yes? You are not that dumb, dumb. The _dark_ wind."

Dark wind. Demons. Even with the yellow-eyed demon gone, Dean had suspected that Sam might still be a target. He wasn't sure if Baba Yaga knew anything or if she was just picking up on what was in Dean's mind, but his gut still seized at the thought of Sam in danger.

Dean didn't nod, but she seemed satisfied anyway, and drew back. "So you wish to keep him safe, out of the wind? Want to strengthen his borders, make sure he keeps, make sure he stays _brother_, brother? That he stays alive, his heart in his chest? Yes?"

"Yes," said Dean.

"Then all you do," said Baba Yaga, "Is say _yes_."

"What?"

She tapped him on the nose. "When he asks. Whatever he asks. You say yes."

"Even if he wants to listen to that emo shit on the radio?" said Dean, but his voice turned shaky in the middle. "I don't get it. What's he going to ask?"

"You want to save him from the wind and the dark things? Keep him, brother, safe forever, till death, till breakfast, till tomorrow?"

"You know I do," said Dean.

"Keep him yours?"

Dean's gaze snapped to hers. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You like the taste of him in your dreams," said Baba Yaga, and she didn't react when Dean pressed the barrel of his gun against her forehead. "You think it is from that he needs saving? Idiot child."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," said Dean. "And I'm dead, anyway, so it doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters," said Baba Yaga, and she blinked at Dean like she was actually surprised. "Everything counts. You die, you think that takes you out of this game? Your scars, they say different. I can read them, you know. Not just cuts, burns, ordinary harm. No. It is his _signature._ How many others can read your face? And your brother, your brother is not unmarked. Your brother is a _novel_."

"I think you should leave now," said Dean, his voice tight.

"You listen? Say _yes,_" said Baba Yaga, and then she turned and left Dean there, her tattered shawl and round form quickly absorbed by the shadows of the forest.

Dean stood silently for a long moment, his nose tingling where she touched him, his gun starting to warm under his palms. He told himself he could start moving any second now, go find Sam, find out if there was any way to take the bitches out. Any second now.

 

*

 

Baba Yaga stopped laughing, letting her chuckle dry off into a rattling hiss. Sam patiently waited for her answer. His mouth was dry and his skin was tingling. He half expected her to say that there was nothing he could do and verify the thoughts that Sam had been having, the conclusion that Dean had reached... but the other half of him was straining, yearning for some grain of hope.

"You are willing," she said at last. "To save your brother, you are willing. But willing to what?"

"Whatever it takes," said Sam. "I can't - it's my fault he's dying. I can't just sit back and watch it happen."

"You are quick to make decisions," said Baba Yaga. "That is one willing thing. But willing to let someone else decide? Willing to listen, to wait? This is not so sure."

"I'm willing to do anything," said Sam, then kicked himself for it. First lesson of dealing with supernatural beings is to never say "anything." But it was true, and Baba Yaga dealt in truth, so Sam gritted his teeth and didn't take back his words.

"Anything?" And Baba Yaga smiled, her teeth gleaming sick-gray. "Yes, you would. Does he know, I wonder?"

There was nothing in her words, but the tone of her voice set Sam on edge. He _knew_ what she was implying, and it wasn't - it was -

"That has nothing to do with this," said Sam. "It never will. It's nothing."

"Strong words set against such strong feelings," she said. "Anything, he says, and yes, he would do anything to his brother, really would do _anything_. Would you touch him, child? Would you put your hands in his secret places? Serve him up for Baba Yaga, child?"

"Shut up," said Sam. He felt sick. She didn't know what she was talking about.

"So disrespectful," said the woman - no, the _creature_. "Mind your mouth around Baba Yaga, child. You asked her a question, she gives answers. Are you willing, willing?"

"You have no right." Sam breathed, slow, through his nose. "You're making this dirty, it's - I _wouldn't_."

"You _would,_" said Baba Yaga, "If you were _willing_. Go ahead and grab him. He'll let you. Give him to us. Open him up and let us see. His heart would be so - mm! - tasty."

"How is letting you _eat him_ your idea of saving him?" Sam had to bite the words out, furious. "I gave you the roses. I _paid_."

"Safe in Baba Yaga's belly," she cackled. "Calm, child, calm. No sense of humor. This is only one way. There are others."

"What are they?"

"He would do anything for you, child. Anything, anything. Words like sugar. He is like bread to you, child? He nourishes?"

"Stop with the food analogies," said Sam. "He's my brother. Answer my question."

"Baba Yaga always speaks the truth. And the truth is that bread is no good unless someone eats it."

"I'm not going to fuck my brother, if that's what you mean."

Sam inhaled sharply at his own words, startled at the stark, clean lines of them. He had never put his feelings for Dean in those terms; never even considered his feelings beyond a nebulous _want_.

He wondered, for a second, if Dean realized just how serious Sam had been that night in New York. But no, Dean knew, of course, Dean had to have known for ages.

A piece of the puzzle snapped into place in Sam's mind, making his stomach lurch.

Dean knew, because why else would he have left?

"Why not?" Baba Yaga grinned at him victoriously, obviously pleased at Sam's crude phrasing. Sick bitch. "Child, child, everyone needs to live from the grains they have planted. If he will not be safe in the Yaga's belly, let him be safe in yours."

She paused, her voice suddenly kind instead of taunting. "Shore up your foundations, shaky child. He can help you. He can love your broken spots."

Sam closed his eyes. "I can't -"

"But you are _willing_," she said. "To save your brother. You said so. You gave your sugarwords."

"But I _can't_," said Sam, and he knew now why those boys never came back, why they stayed here to be devoured. His gut was twisted, his eyes watering. There was no real way to save Dean, no solution, there was just _this_, his secret, blasted open and laid bare for Baba Yaga to see. Dean was not saved. Dean was going to die.

"No," said Baba Yaga, and Sam stiffened, wondered suddenly if she had the ability to read his mind. "You do not understand. You do not understand, but do you trust us, child?"

"Trust you?" said Sam. He laughed. It hurt his throat. "No. No, I don't trust you."

Baba Yaga hummed at him, waggled the ragged bouquet of roses under his nose. "No matter. No need for trust. You will see."

And then she was gone.

 

*

 

When Dean found Sam, Sam was sitting on an old rotting log, staring straight into nothing.

"Hey," said Dean. His voice was scratchy. "You find her?"

Sam nodded, and finally turned to meet Dean's eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"So how do we get rid of them?"

Sam looked at him blankly for a second before his confusion cleared, and in that moment Dean got his answer. "You didn't ask."

Sam closed his eyes, shook his head. "Yeah, I - sorry. I just - I didn't want to use it up on that, you know?"

"Well," said Dean. "What the hell do we do, then?" He was suddenly angry at Sam, and angry at himself for being angry. It wasn't Sam's fault, not really. Dean should have been the one with the roses. He shouldn't have trusted Sam to ask the right question. Hell, for that matter, Dean shouldn't have wasted his question on something else, either.

Sam scrubbed at his face and didn't meet Dean's eyes. "I don't know," he said. "More research? I - I kinda want to get out of this place for a while."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

A twig snapped behind him, and Dean stiffened. Sam glanced up, then leapt to his feet, hand going straight to the gun Dean knew was tucked in the back of his jeans.

"Dean?" he said, his voice low and urgent. "Don't move."

Dean ignored him, of course, and turned around.

A mere yard from where Dean was standing, there was a huge chicken leg, withered and knobby, as big around as a tree trunk, with its sharp claws tucked deep into the dirt. Great. Dean followed the leg up with his eyes and saw the tiny house perched on top, cocked forward as if to look at them with its bare, windowless walls.

"Not again," Dean grumbled.

He and Sam didn't run this time, they stayed and sized the house up. The house was crooked and small, painted a deep rust-color that cracked and peeled from the wood. The planks that made up the sides were warping and bending away from the frame. The roof, rough and patched, scraped the high branches above them. The skin of the house's legs was scaly, pale-yellow and covered in moss.

It swayed, dipped closer, almost like it was inspecting the two trespassers in front of it. In fact, Dean thought suddenly, it probably was. Dean backed up until he could feel Sam steady at his side.

"Baba Yaga's chicken-house," said Dean. "That's taking 'keeping up with the Joneses' a little far. Who's supposed to compete with that?"

The door swung open, and Baba Yaga peered out at them. Dean realized that this one must be the third sister; she was younger, her hair still mostly black. Her eyes were an icy green and the line of her mouth was wrinkled and pinched.

Sam inhaled sharply. "Dean? That's not the one I talked to."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know, I -"

Sam was ignoring him though, his face tense, meeting Baba Yaga's gaze squarely. Baba Yaga didn't move an inch either, perched solidly in the doorway of her chicken-house. Her feet were bare, turned dark with dirt. The hem of her skirt was streaked brown - with mud, rust, or something else.

"Uh," said Dean. "I'm guessing you're the hot younger sister?"

Baba Yaga Jr. stopped staring at Sam and looked at Dean instead. After a long beat, she started laughing.

"I hate it when they laugh," said Dean.

Sam grabbed his elbow. "What do you mean, _they_? You saw one?"

"I was just telling you, there's three of them," said Dean. "They're sisters. I talked to one of the others in the -"

"Dean," said Sam, his face white. "_No._"

"Too late," said Baba Yaga. Her voice was reedy and thin. Dean had to strain to hear her.

"Did she answer any questions?" asked Sam. "Dean, _tell me_, did she give you an answer without asking for anything in return?"

Baba Yaga smiled, slowly, at the exact moment that Dean realized just how fucked he was.

"We are hungry," said Baba Yaga, "And this one owes us payment. Services rendered. It has been such a very long time."

"_You can't have him,_" Sam said. His grip on Dean's arm tightened.

Baba Yaga leered. Dean's heart beat faster, a dull thud of dread, and he put his hand over Sam's. "Sorry. Sorry, Sammy. I screwed up."

"No," said Sam. He kept shaking his head. "No way."

"It's okay," said Dean. "And I know what you asked. You asked her how to cure me, right? Well, there's no way. I'm dead. So - it's the same, either way."

Sam just looked at him, and damn, hadn't Dean ever told Sam he couldn't stand that look?

"Sorry," said Dean again. He'd fucked up. Now, he'd never be sure if Sammy would stay safe. It hurt, paralyzed him, the thought that some evil motherfucker might come after Sam again, when Dean might have been able to prevent it just by managing to follow the crazy lady's weird directions before he kicked the bucket.

Sam let out a sharp laugh, and really, there was too much hysterical laughter coming out of that kid lately. "You're sorry?"

"Yeah," said Dean. "Yeah, I." And then he ran out of air, or ideas, or something, and just stared at Sam, trying to burn Sam's face into his mind. Sam's eyes were dark, and his face was accusing, and fearful, with an underlying fierceness that startled Dean, because he suddenly recognized it as fierceness for _him_.

Last words. He had to leave Sammy with some last words, had to lie to him, let him know that everything was going to be okay. Maybe even spill his last secrets, all those dirty little things in Dean's brain that Sam always kept poking at. Now Sam would finally know, and he'd finally be satisfied, and Dean would be done.

But, really, in the end... what could Dean say?

He considered, for one crazy second, leaning in and kissing Sam - grabbing one last, selfish moment where Sam was _his_, his brother, his, his everything - but he couldn't use Sam like that, not now and not ever, and the next instant Dean felt himself swept up into a blur of black and earth-yellow, a huge, swirling bunch of darkness.

And that was it.


	4. the tide is high and it's rising still

PART FOUR: _the tide is high and it's rising still_

 

The next few moments happened in slow motion. First there was a shudder of earth, impact raising dirt and grit that made Sam blink hard, and the next thing Sam saw was Dean encased in huge, muddy talons. Sam let out a shocked grunt and grabbed for Dean's legs, but the house snatched him away like it was snatching a toy from a squalling toddler.

"_Dean!_"

The chicken-house gave Dean a brutal shake, and Sam saw Dean go limp. The house bent and contorted its legs, balancing on one foot in a hideously comical sight. Then it popped Dean inside the trapdoor that had been hidden on the house's underside.

Sam raised his gun and fired at the chicken-legs, hoping to incapacitate the house, but either he missed or the bullets just didn't phase it. Sam gave up on his gun and began running toward the nearest leg, thinking only _grab on, find out where they're taking him_, but the house simply took two long strides, then two more, and disappeared into the forest.

Sam paused for a moment, his heart pounding in his throat, and then took off running again. His own legs were all but useless next to the house's easy, graceful speed, but Sam didn't care. He kept going.

 

*

 

Dean didn't know how long he had blacked out, but he knew he woke up when the damn chicken sent him tumbling straight into the far interior wall of Baba Yaga's house. He slammed into the wall hard and heard his shoulder give a pop. The trapdoor snapped shut behind him.

He heard a faraway scream, a sound that made goosebumps pop up on his arms, and it took him a moment to realize that it was Sam.

Dean got his legs under him and curled up on the floor, fetal-position style, resting his forehead on the floor. The wood was polished clean and cool against Dean's face. He took a ragged breath, tried not to think of the noise Sam had made. Sammy would be okay. He had to be okay.

As far as Dean could tell, he was in some sort of basement. Which was kind of odd, because from the outside he could have sworn the house didn't have a basement. The floorboards above him creaked. Dean guessed that Baba Yaga was about to come check on her soon-to-be-dinner, and he cast an uneasy glance at the crooked stairs in the corner and curled his arms around his stomach, wondering if he should even try to fight.

After a few seconds spent lying there, waiting, he thought of Sam again.

"Goddamn, what is wrong with you, you fucker?" Dean muttered to himself, and he got up, beginning to search the basement for anything that was pointy, blunt, or otherwise weapon-y.

Dean wasn't going to go out without a fight, not when Sam was still out there counting on him.

 

*

 

When Sam came stumbling out of the forest, his face scratched and his feet blistered, it felt uncomfortably like surrender.

He looked back at the dark trees, the darker trees beyond that, and tried to think of whether the books he'd been looking through had any references to a permanent nesting place, or a homestead to which Baba Yaga - any of them - might return.

Sam slid a shaking hand over his forehead, trying to get his hair out of his eyes. He couldn't remember. He couldn't _fucking_ remember, and his brother might already be dead and in a fucking stew somewhere.

His knees buckled, throat burning, and Sam coughed and puked into the grass for a good five minutes, trying not to think of what the Baba Yagas could be doing to Dean right now.

Then Sam urged himself up, walked slowly over to the Impala, and broke speed limits all the way to the Livonia library.

 

*

 

When Baba Yaga came down the stairs, Dean was ready. And he was armed. Really, who just left a shovel lying around if they didn't expect to get hit with it?

He swung the shovel at Baba Yaga's head with all his might, and the clang of contact jarred his arms and sent a jolt of pain through his injured shoulder. The bitch didn't even wince, just turned and gave him the evil eye.

"Shall I eat you at once, child?" she said raspily, raising an eyebrow at the shovel. "Or should I save some of you for later? Later, later the meat will be less tender, but what a shame to gobble you up and then gone. All gone!"

Dean snarled at her and tossed the shovel aside. "I get a preference? Just fucking get it over with."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "So eager to be meat?"

"So eager to choke and _die_ on me, bitch?"

Baba Yaga narrowed her eyes and pointed at the stairs. "We will see, see. First, first I have a task for you, boy."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "A 'task'? You know, you're really not my type."

 

*

 

It only occurred to Sam after he entered the library that he probably should have stopped to change clothes and take a shower first. He was sweaty, streaked with mud, and had tiny stinging scratches all over his arms and face from running into patches of brambles and unforgiving branches.

"Are you okay, Sam?" called Heather. She and the other woman behind the desk were eying Sam warily, but Heather sounded genuinely concerned, and Sam had to swallow back the sudden urge to sit down and just soak in their friendly presence. He couldn't, though; they were civilians, and for a second, Sam's awareness of how very different he was from them burned almost as badly as Dean's absence.

"Yeah," said Sam. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Sorry, I was just out in the park and I took a tumble. I meant to go clean up, but I wanted to get here before you guys closed." He tried tossing a sheepish grin on top of it all, and it seemed to work.

Heather pointed toward the back. "The bathrooms are back there, if you need to wash up. And... we have a first aid kit, if you need it."

"Thanks," said Sam, and took the first aid kit from Heather's outstretched hand.

 

*

 

Dean couldn't tell how long the house walked before coming to rest. All he knew was that the room tipped one way, then another, and then came to a shuddering halt that shook the floor and threw Dean off his feet.

Baba Yaga came down to get him, her bare feet pattering on the steps. "We are home," she said proudly. "We have been traveling, were traveling for weeks before we found you, but now we are home. Come and see."

She took Dean by the elbow, sharp fingernails pricking his skin, and led him up the stairs. The main room of the house was not quite the evil lair that Dean had expected; the walls were painted a cheery yellow, and he even spotted a few needlepoint samplers hanging on the walls. At first glance it could have been any old-fashioned country home.

The sight of the huge oven along one wall, however, laid that image to rest. It was antique and made of a heavy black metal, looking like something straight out of Hansel and Gretel. That was probably where they cooked their lunch - in this case, Dean. Well, that was just great.

Baba Yaga didn't let Dean look around for long, and after a moment she gave him a sharp tug toward the door. Dean got a brief glimpse of some dishes hanging over the sink, glistening with soap and orbiting slowly in the air like they were washing themselves, and then he was forced outside.

The house was resting on the ground, no legs in sight. Instead, Dean was greeted by an orderly little yard that looked very out of place in its deeply forested surroundings. A little gravel walkway led up to the door, bracketed by tiny pots of geraniums. There was a fence surrounding the yard, a tall, knobby wooden fence with sharp spikes. Ten of the fence spikes were taller than the others, and they had objects impaled on them that looked like shriveled gourds. As they drew closer, Dean could see they weren't gourds at all - they were human heads, shrunken and old.

"Man, you're one sick bitch," said Dean. Once Dean looked more closely, he could tell that the rest of the fence wasn't wood at all. It was pale, bleached bone.

"Yes, yes." Baba Yaga dragged Dean through the grisly fence gate, her bony hand digging hard into Dean's wrist. "Here, here is your task."

Dean blinked, but the sight was still there: a stable, sitting in the middle of the woods next to Baba Yaga's house. Dean tried to remember if he and Sam had seen anything about a freaking _stable_ in their research, but nothing came to him. Was that where Baba Yaga kept her mortar and pestle?

Baba Yaga finally let go of Dean to open the stable doors, and he tried to rub the feeling back into his wrists. Damn bitch made his skin crawl. She swung the stable doors open, and a gust of putrid air hit Dean right in the face, making him flinch.

Well, Dean thought, now he was both figuratively _and_ literally in a pile of shit.

He took a cautious step into the stable, hearing the muck and crap squelch under his boots. There was a faint whinny from one of the far stalls, and he could hear hooves impatiently thump the wall.

There was crap _everywhere_, sludgy and ankle-deep in the shallowest spots. It looked like nobody had cleaned the stalls for a long time, and it made Dean wonder if chores were only completed by the poor suckers the Baba Yagas happened to catch.

Dean had to breathe through his mouth carefully so he wouldn't gag on the stinking air. He felt a moment's pang for whatever horses or hellbeasts they kept in here; all that filth couldn't be good for them.

Dean's mind ticked over to something else that Baba Yaga had said.

"Wait," said Dean, "I'm supposed to have all this crap shoveled by _when_?"

"By the morning," said Baba Yaga. "We rise at dawn. If you do well, maybe we will not kill you tomorrow."

Great, they were going all Arabian Nights on Dean's ass.

"But the day after that I'm dead meat, huh? You're just screwing with me." Dean kicked at a particularly thick clod of crap. "It's impossible to get this place clean in a day. Since there's no way I can win this game, you might as well just eat me now and spare me the Nickelodeon slime fest."

Baba Yaga only chuckled and scurried away. Dean had the feeling she'd know if he tried to make a run for it.

Dean surveyed the stables. "Well," he said. "Shit." He might as well give it a shot; if by some wacky chance Baba Yaga was telling the truth, even just one extra day of life would give Dean more time to figure out a way back to Sam. "

He tested his shoulder, wondering if it was dislocated. It didn't seem like it was, but it hurt like hell whenever Dean moved it.

"Oh, this is going to be just peachy," Dean muttered, and he grabbed a shovel.

 

*

 

After Sam had cleaned off the worst of the dirt and put band-aids over some of the larger scrapes on his arms, he emerged from the bathroom and handed the first-aid kit back to the other woman at the counter.

"Sorry," he said, pulling on a sheepish expression. "I didn't mean to cause a scene, I just - my paper's due tomorrow, and I was freaking out about the deadline and wasn't even thinking. Last-minute research, you know."

The woman nodded, some of the suspicion in her look easing. "I know how that is," she said.

"I don't even know your name," said Sam. "I'm Sam."

"Sunny." Sunny - whose parents had apparently been hippies - nodded at him. Sam gave her a smile and a nod, and then left the counter and made his way over to the section on Russian folklore.

He piled up every book he and Dean had looked at the day before, and a few more besides. There had to be something Sam had missed.

After forty minutes of searching, Sam still hadn't had any luck in finding out where Baba Yaga liked to roost. He'd found variations on the same old tales: the invisible helpers, the three horses and riders (which still gave Sam pause - made him think about dreams that might be visions), the mortar and pestle, the fence full of the severed heads of passing heroes. He knew how Vasilissa and Prince Ivan had outsmarted Baba Yaga in the old tales, but none of that would help him now, here, at Hemlock Lake.

Sam wondered if he should just go out into the woods and say "Baba Yaga" three times, like Beetlejuice. Maybe one of them would just pop up.

He rubbed his eyes and went to ask Heather if she had any Advil. His head was throbbing and he couldn't concentrate, and if Sam couldn't get his act together, Dean was fucked. As Sam approached the desk, he could hear Heather and Sunny talking in quiet, cheerful voices.

"No, that volume was checked out by that Timmy Richardson boy last week. You remember him?" Sunny knotted her long hair at the base of her neck to keep it out of her face.

"Timmy... wasn't he the boy whose friends died out by Hemlock?" Heather shook her head. "Poor kid."

Sam stopped in his tracks, listening intently.

"He and his parents just moved back from New York," Sunny said. "He's nice - a bit odd, but nice."

A kid from New York, who had known the victims in the forest?

"Excuse me," said Sam, coming up to the desk. "But, uh, do you know where I could find this Timothy?"

 

*

 

Dean's arms were aching so hard he thought they might fall off. Night was coming on fast, and Dean had only managed to clear two stalls of the ten. It didn't help that the handle of the shovel had broken off, and there was a large rusted hole in the bottom of the only wheelbarrow. What use was a wheelbarrow with a hole in it, except to drive Dean up the fucking wall?

"Motherfuck," gasped Dean, and he leaned against the door to an empty stall to catch his breath. Well, whatever. The most that the three Baba Yagas could do was eat him, and Dean was already pretty sure that would happen one way or another.

The horse in the end stall banged against the wall again, letting out an impatient neigh.

Dean shook his head. "Sorry, dude, I'm beat. I'll get yours in a minute." He stopped, asked himself why the hell he was talking to a horse.

"Why the hell am I talking to a horse?" Dean asked the horse. He paused. "And how do you expect me to get in there, anyway? You'll probably stomp on me and eat my face."

The horse made an indignant noise.

"Great," Dean said to himself. "Either I'm talking to myself, or I'm talking to Mr. freaking Ed."

Dean heaved a sigh and approached the stall, eying the horse over the top of the door. The horse was huge and black, so dark that Dean could hardly tell him from the shadows. He touched the door, wishing he had an apple or something to help him make friends with the thing. Dean was rather fond of his face and kinda wanted to keep it.

The horse's ears flicked, and its hooves pawed at the muck in its stall.

"I'm not gonna let you out," said Dean, "So you might as well get that out of your head. Remember what I said about the stomping and the face-eating? Not my idea of a good time."

He paused. "Of course, a hot chick in stilettos could probably get away with it. But you, my friend, are not a hot chick in stilettos. Not that I'd be too surprised if you used to be, what with that ol' bitch hanging around, but I'm just saying it's unlikely."

Dean could almost swear the horse laughed.

"Fuck it," said Dean, and opened the stall door.

There was nothing there.

Dean blinked, then turned, and the horse - no, _stallion_ \- was standing next to him. It towered over Dean, all gleaming black mane and thick, lithe muscle. Its eyes regarded Dean curiously, and it gave Dean a forceful nudge with its huge nose.

"It may surprise you to hear that I actually don't like horses," said Dean, taking a step back. "Cowboys, sure, they were pretty cool, but I was never one for actual horse riding. Sammy got all the girly horse-loving genes in the family."

The stallion took a step closer, until it was almost standing on top of Dean.

"Now, Sammy," Dean said, trying to hide the fact that he was scared shitless. Damn, he hated horses. "Sammy asked for a pony for his birthday when he turned nine. We were still living out of motels. I thought Dad was gonna piss himself laughing."

Another chuffing noise that sounded like a chuckle, and the stallion turned, its tail flicking lightly into Dean's face. He blinked, startled, and when he opened his eyes the horse was gone again.

And along with the horse, so was all of the muck.

Dean poked at the floor with his shovel, but it hadn't just turned invisible - all of the horse shit really was gone, just like that. The floor was back to bare wood beneath Dean's feet, clean and unblemished. There was a pile of sweet-smelling hay in the corner that Dean could swear hadn't been there before.

"I take it back," Dean said wonderingly. "Horses are _awesome._"

Night had fallen with the departure of the black horse, so Dean filled all the stalls with fresh hay and made a makeshift bed in one of them. Dean figured that Baba Yaga might put him on a spit for letting her fancy magical horse escape, but if she did, Dean was sure as hell going to get some sleep first.

Dean curled up awkwardly in the hay, his abused shoulder giving another twinge, and fell asleep almost immediately. He dreamed of running through the woods, and the black stallion, running alongside him, wordlessly urging Dean to climb on and ride.

 

*

 

"Hey," called Sam. School should have let out hours ago, but apparently this kid had a lot of extracurriculars. "You Timmy Richardson?"

Timmy Richardson, a skinny, pale guy with bright red hair, stopped on his way across the schoolyard and gave Sam a completely befuddled look. "Uh... yeah, I'm Timothy."

"Timothy, then," Sam corrected smoothly. "You got time to answer a few questions, Timothy?"

The kid approached him warily. "You got a warrant?"

Sam blinked. "A warrant? Uh, look, kid, I don't really need to have a warrant to ask you a few questions."

Timothy shrugged. "It's just what they say on TV. You a cop, then?"

"Detective Anderson, at your service," said Sam. "Can we sit down?"

Timothy nodded and sat down right on the concrete, legs crossed Indian-style. After a beat, Sam followed suit. There were a couple other students milling around who gave them odd looks, but both Sam and the kid ignored them.

"Is this about Kevin and Mike?" Timothy asked. "Cause the cops already came to our school to ask people stuff."

"It is about Kevin and Mike," said Sam, "And Cody, too. Some additional evidence has come up, and we just wanted to verify some of the facts you gave us."

The kid looked nervous. Good. That would make the intimidation techniques work better. "What kind of additional evidence?"

Sam pulled a plastic sandwich bag from his pocket and tossed it to Timothy. "We think we may have found Cody's body."

The bone in the baggie was thick enough that it could pass for a human finger bone. If there was bad lighting, and you'd never actually seen a finger bone. Or the inside of a chicken. Sam was counting on both.

Timothy caught the baggie and squinted at the grisly contents. "That's a chicken bone," he said. He shrugged carelessly at Sam and tossed the bone back. "I'm going to be majoring in biology at NYU next year. I want to be a doctor. Also, Cody's not dead."

Sam blinked. "How would you know? Cody was reported missing. Last seen near Hemlock Lake."

"Well, _yeah_," said Timothy. "Because that's what I told the cops. But Cody's fine. He ran away from home to be with his boyfriend. I got a postcard from him last week, he's living in Jersey. Who are you, anyway?"

"I told you," said Sam. "I'm -"

"You're not a cop," said Timothy. "I can tell. I wouldn't have told you about Cody if you were a cop. Why are you talking to me?"

"Because I need you to tell me two things," Sam told him. "First, why you sent them out there. And second, how I can find her."

Timothy looked startled. "What?"

"You got two boys killed. You _knew_ what a danger those witches were. Did you just get a kick out of -" Sam's voice was starting to shake, but he stopped, took a breath, and slipped easily back into his smooth detective persona. Sure, the kid didn't buy it, but it was a comfort for Sam. It helped him not think about Dean and the sounds of bone crunching.

"Tell me, Timmy, why'd you do it? Were they being tough on you in school? You thought maybe this would be a good way to get them in trouble, get them to leave you alone?"

"No! I didn't." Timothy shook his head fiercely. "I _didn't_, okay? It wasn't like that. I - I told Kevin. That's all. And he knew all the rules. He was _safe_."

"Kevin ended up floating facedown in Hemlock Lake. I wouldn't say that was 'safe'."

Timothy blanched, finally showing a crack in his wiseass veneer. "Look, I'm sorry about that. He was safe with _her_. But - sometimes, when they tell you things you - that you don't really want to know -"

Sam remembered what Baba Yaga had said to him, his fury, his helplessness, and he conceded the point with a nod. "But that doesn't explain Mike," he said. "Why tell Mike about her?"

"I _didn't_," Timothy hissed. He looked shaken. "I haven't told anyone about them since Kevin, and after what happened to Mike, I would never tell anyone again. Never. But Mike - he was listening, he overheard us. He went to meet them and he didn't take an offering, he didn't even..."

Timothy trailed off, swallowing hard and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Damn. Sam really hadn't wanted to feel sorry for this idiot kid.

"Listen," said Sam. "Okay. Whatever. I don't care. Promise never to do it again." He took a breath. "But this is important. I need to _find_ her."

"What?" Timothy looked genuinely shocked. "No way. I just told you, I'm not telling anyone else how to find her! Anyway, I don't even know how to find her. You can't find her unless she wants you to."

"I've already found her once," said Sam. "And the bitch has my brother. So just tell me where she lives."

Timothy stared at him.

"Why are you looking at me like that," Sam said.

"Your name wouldn't happen to be Sam Winchester, would it?"

Sam froze, but Timothy took his silence as a 'yes,' and began to rummage through his backpack.

"She told me that someone would come asking," said Timothy, "And that I would know who it was because they would be somebody's brother. And, you know, it didn't make much sense at the time - but nothing she says really does, you know, not until it's happening, and then, it's like, you just _know_, you know?"

Sam could only watch as Timothy extracted a dusty, mildewed, ancient-looking book from his overstuffed backpack. The book was black with a faded design on its cover, and it was encircled several times with crumbling rubber bands.

"And she told me that when I met you, I should give you this," Timothy finished. "She said that it would answer your question."

"Which one?" said Sam weakly, but he reached out, he took the book from Timothy's hands, he took the book.

It was light in Sam's hands, much lighter than he would have expected an answer to be.

 

*

 

Baba Yaga said nothing about the missing horse, just looked around the stables, clucking her tongue in disapproval. Finally, she nodded.

"Good," she said begrudgingly. "You had help, boy, that is obvious, but it is good."

"Slinging shit," said Dean. "Who knew? I must've missed my calling."

"You will live," said Baba Yaga. "At least, for today. I have your next task."

And so, on the second day, Baba Yaga ordered Dean to find a needle in a haystack. An actual needle in an actual haystack.

Dean wondered if that was even _supposed_ to be difficult, and the minute that Baba Yaga left, he flipped open his lighter to set the haystack on fire. Once the straw had burned away, he should have a lot less difficulty finding the fucking needle.

Except for one thing. The straw wouldn't catch fire.

"Great," muttered Dean. "She's invented flame-retardant hay. That's just freaking _splendid._"

Dean cursed at his lighter, then heard a small squeak. Looking down, he saw a tiny mouse, about the size of his thumb, covered in soft gray fur. It didn't seem to be scared of Dean's feet; in fact, it was sniffing around Dean's toes like a really, really small dog. If it hadn't been a rodent, it would have been wagging its tail.

Dean narrowed his eyes. There was something really weird about all of Baba Yaga's animals.

"Hey, little guy," Dean said. He nudged the mouse with his foot. "I really don't want to have to stomp you."

The mouse made a little squeak noise and looked up at Dean accusingly. Huh.

Dean stopped for just a moment to contemplate the craziness of what he was about to do, then plunged ahead. Hell, the whole place was one long acid trip, anyway. All that mattered was that he got back to Sam. And if Dean had to strike up deals with a few mice along the way, so be it.

Dean hunched down, peering closely at the little mouse. It looked up at him quizzically.

"Hey, little mouse dude," said Dean. "Uh. You want some candy?"

Dean mentally went through his pockets. He was pretty sure he had at least two melted peanut M&amp;Ms in the pocket of his jeans that had escaped from the little bag he'd stuffed in there a few days ago. He might also have a cellophane-wrapped peppermint left over from the last decent restaurant that he and Sam had gone to, a steakhouse somewhere in Ohio.

"I have some M&amp;Ms," Dean told the mouse. "Tons of chocolatey goodness. With peanuts. And they're yours, if you give me a hand."

The mouse seemed to raise an eyebrow at him.

"I'm not lying, I swear," said Dean. "Of course, I _am_ a lunatic who's talking to a rat. But that's not the point. There's a needle in that haystack, and I need it, because Ms. Yaga's a sadistic bitch. Can you find it for me?"

After an unsettling length of time, the mouse did some kind of jerky, sideways shuffle, and bounded into the haystack. Dean stared at where it had disappeared, shook his head, and settled down to wait.

Dean was dozing when the mouse came back out two hours later, a thin sliver of metal glinting in its mouth. Dean was tempted to reconsider his self-diagnosis of complete insanity, but only a little bit. After all, just because a mouse helps you find a needle in a haystack doesn't mean you weren't insane for talking to said mouse to begin with.

"Here you go," and Dean handed the M&amp;Ms to the mouse, which moved its head in an imitation of a nod before shoving the M&amp;Ms in its cheeks.

The M&amp;Ms seemed to expand in the mouse's cheeks, soft gray skin rippling and swelling. Dean took a step back, watched as the mouse's body bulged, until suddenly the mouse was the size of a small toddler - then larger. Dean heard bones pop into a new alignment, watched as fur was replaced by fresh pink skin.

When the girl blinked up at Dean, fully human and completely naked, Dean realized that he really wasn't surprised.

"Uh, hi," said Dean. "You been here a while?"

The girl smiled at him like she wasn't used to it. She couldn't have been much older than sixteen. Her dark eyes crinkled up at the corners, her chapped lips stretched awkwardly back from her teeth.

"Th-thank," she said. She paused and cleared her throat. "_Thank you_. Yes. It... has been a long time."

"Don't worry," Dean told her. "We'll get out of this place soon and get you back to your folks. What's your name?"

"Elizabeth," the girl said, eyes wide. "My name is Elizabeth."

"Nice to meet you, Elizabeth." Dean stretched out a hand to help her up, but Elizabeth froze, staring into the distance. Dean turned around, expecting to find Baba Yaga behind him, but there was nothing.

When he turned back, the girl hadn't moved, but she had turned gray and lifeless. She was still staring. Her skin crumbled under Dean's fingers as he felt for her pulse.

"Damn," said Dean quietly. "Damn."

Dean's touch had destroyed the illusion of solidity; Elizabeth's body disintegrated quickly, like a hollow flare of ash, leaving nothing behind but a small pile of dust. She must have been trapped as that mouse for decades. Maybe even centuries.

The needle lay next to the dusty outline, tarnished but shining in the sunlight, and Dean picked it up and wove it through the cuff of his shirt so he wouldn't lose it. Then he dug a hole at the base of a nearby tree and scooped Elizabeth's remains into the ground with shaking hands.

Once he'd finished, Dean wiped his hands on the grass and sat back. His task was done, thanks to a long-dead girl, and now Dean had a whole day to kill. He wondered how Sam was doing. But to think about Sam too long made Dean's gut start to hurt, so he settled down in the shade, the sun blocked out by layers of leaves above, and dozed lightly against a tree trunk. He tried not to think of Elizabeth's startled eyes.

Dean fell asleep and dreamed of Sam on fire. Sam's eyes turned black as ink, his skin aflame. He scorched Dean's hands.

Dean grabbed Sam by the arms, ignoring the fire, and tugged Sam from the ceremonial circle. The flesh of his palms blistered, and Sam fought him like a wild animal, teeth bared, until his flailing hands caught on the knife tucked into Dean's belt.

Sam slashed at Dean, letting out an angry shriek, burning, burning, but Dean managed to block the blow. The knife caught him in the back of the hand, shredding tendons like butter, and Dean, caught off guard by the intense pain, bit his mouth around a scream.

Sam pressed in closer, taking Dean's weakness as an opportunity. The knife poked against Dean's ribs, sharp tip hovering, waiting, and all Dean could think was _Please, Sam, no, not like this, Sammy NO_ \-- and he flailed out with his injured hand, catching Sam across the face and leaving a streak of his own blood.

And Sam... stopped. The fire cleared from his face. Sam blinked, and the black slipped from his eyes like an oil stain.

Dean stared at Sam, trembling from pain and fear. He could hear a distant rumble, like something was angry.

"Sam?" Dean could barely hope, but he _had_ to hope. "_Sam?_"

Sam blinked, entirely human, entirely _Sam._ "Dean?" He caught Dean's hand by the wrist, looked blankly at the big gaping slash in Dean's palm, at the blood oozing from the wound. He didn't seem to connect Dean's injury to the knife that he still held in his other hand, and Dean reached out slowly to take it away from him. Sam gave it up without a word.

"Good to have you back," Dean said shakily, and Sam made a choked noise and gripped Dean's shoulder hard. He looked sick and pale, like the past few months had suddenly come crashing down on him. The smear of Dean's blood cut across Sam's face like a half-mask.

Dean wanted to wrap his arms around his brother, make sure he was really there, really Sam. But there was no time, there was no time because Dean could hear a banging on the walls of the warehouse, something big and nasty trying to get in. They were so screwed, so very screwed, and they had to get out of there _now._

He twisted in his sleep, preparing for the next round. Usually, just as Sam and Dean began to run, something would happen to make Dean wake up, panting and swearing.

Sometimes, they just wouldn't run fast enough and the demon's fiery onslaught would tear them apart.

Sometimes, Sam would blink at Dean, his eyes gone black again, laughter in his voice as he said _Made you look._

This time, though, the dream took a new turn. They made it out of the warehouse, gasping and clinging to each other, and nothing leapt out at them. They were safe.

Dean turned to Sam, and suddenly Sam's mouth was on his; lips shoved right up against Dean's, frantic and biting. Dean stiffened, and Sam took the opportunity to shove Dean up against the side of the warehouse, sliding cool hands under Dean's shirt.

"Dean," Sam murmured against his skin. "_Say yes_."

Dean woke up, his dick hard and throbbing in his jeans. Baba Yaga stood over him with a knowing look in her eyes and held out her hand for the needle. Dean handed it to her, then doubled over, retching in the hollow made by the tree's roots. His vision doubled, and Dean felt a tearing pain in his gut, like something had ripped loose.

It was too soon for another wave of the demon's sickness. It was way too soon.

Wasn't it?

 

*

 

Dean had been in Baba Yaga's clutches for a full six hours. Sam told himself that they wouldn't - _couldn't_ kill Dean, not yet - why would they give Sam the answer to Dean's curse, if they weren't going to give Sam a chance to see if it worked?

Sam ran his thumb over the cover of the book Timothy had given him. The answer was right there on the page. Sam had found the ceremony easily, flipping past crackling, dog-eared paper straight to the place marked with a piece of string.

It was a fairly simple ritual. It was crazy to attempt it, of course, and to some people the price would have been too high, but as long as it worked, Sam didn't really care.

And it _would_ work.

Six hours. Sam made himself read the directions for the ritual again, making a mental list of what he'd need. He had time. He could prepare for the ritual and then go to the woods, let Baba Yaga know that Sam had found the book and he was ready for his brother back, now.

Dean would be fine until Sam found him. He _had_ to be fine.

 

*

 

On the third day, Dean's task was washing dishes. Despite the fact that he'd seen them being washed by something - or someone - on his first day there, the piles of dishes in the sink were as high and crooked as ever. The plates were slippery and covered in greasy spots and chunks of things Dean didn't want to look at too closely.

He rinsed them off and stacked them up, trying to ignore the bits of bone and flesh that were caught in the sink drain. He had the feeling he really didn't want to know where the waste came from.

Just as Dean stacked the last dish, Baba Yaga came in. It wasn't the same one that had been ordering Dean around for the last couple of days; actually, Dean was pretty sure it was the one he'd talked to in the forest, the one who'd tricked him into this to start with. Dean had less than fuzzy feelings toward that Baba Yaga.

She sat at the dining table, her shoulders hunched and her head nearly scraping the ceiling. The house was normal-size for Dean, but there was something trippy about how Baba Yaga fit in her own space, like no matter what size she actually was, she had to expand to fit it. Dean didn't even try to figure it out, just ignored it in order to stave off the inevitable headache.

"We are not going to eat you," said Baba Yaga.

"Today, yeah, I know," said Dean. "Maybe tomorrow I'll get lucky, huh?"

"No," said Baba Yaga. "Silly boy, why would we kill you? We want to know too much. Your brother, he has realized this. He is beginning to understand why we are here."

"My brother?" asked Dean. "What the hell do you mean? Where's Sam?"

She got up, somehow managing to stand and still fit in the same space she'd taken up while seated. "Only way to know is to see. You may go back. We grant you safe passage. Your brother waits for you at the forest edge. First, though, you must finish the dishes."

"What?" But Dean had already -

He looked behind him and the sink was full again, overflowing with suds, dishes and particles of old meat. Great. Figured.

But Dean just picked up the sponge again. None of it mattered. Sam was waiting for him. It was way too easy and it didn't make sense, but Dean didn't care.

He didn't know how long it took before he washed the last dish - again - but when he did, they stayed stacked, tall mounds of gleaming china. Baba Yaga made pleased little noises, squeezing Dean's shoulder with one bony hand.

"Time for you to go, soon, soon," she said.

"I thought you said _now_," said Dean. His hands were shriveled and pruny from the dishwater, and he wanted to wrap them around Baba Yaga's tiny little neck.

Dean heard another one come in, and he twisted to face her. It was the youngest Baba Yaga - or at least Dean thought it was the youngest, it was hard to tell. Her hair gleaming burnished black in the light, lit up with strands of dirty gray.

"Sister," she hissed. "You were supposed to let him out _days_ ago. We agreed."

The Baba Yaga next to Dean cocked her head and licked her lips. "He washes well."

"It is past time," said the younger Baba Yaga. "His body weakens. You have pushed him too hard, sister, and he may not last the night."

"What are you talking about?" asked Dean. He was having trouble forming the questions, like he'd been hit with heavy-duty painkillers. "I feel fine. And what do you mean, how long have I been here?"

They both stared at him critically, like they were sizing him up.

"Hard to say," said one. "Time is different here. Maybe days. Maybe hours. Maybe months."

God. Dean could hardly think through the muzzy feeling in his head, but he could still think of time. _Sammy_. If Dean had been gone that long -

"But not for your brother," said the other, like it knew what Dean was thinking. "For him, less than a day. Strange, how time can travel and weave."

"Nice," said Dean. "That's real nice. But I think someone was saying something about letting me go?"

They stared at him for a moment.

"One more day, sister," said the older Baba Yaga. "Just one more. He is strong enough for an eternity in our house."

"And an hour outside of it," the younger one retorted. "Sister, we agreed." She paused, and the two Baba Yagas stared at each other, having some sort of conversation Dean couldn't hear.

"One more day," said Baba Yaga.

"Very well," said the other Baba Yaga. "One more. You are right, he does wash well."

"Fuck you both," said Dean, and he took off for the door. One of the crones tried to grab him, and he twisted past her grip and elbowed her right in her long, beaky nose. They shouted things at Dean in their shriveled root voices, but he ignored them and kept going.

He burst through the door and stumbled outside, and Dean paused, unsure of what to do next. There was nowhere to run that the Baba Yagas wouldn't be able to catch him. The house was already beginning to shudder in its foundations, like it would be ready to bound after Dean at any second.

Dean ran anyway.

He ran until he had to stop, gasping desperately for air. He could still hear the angry shouts of the Baba Yagas, distant but gaining on him. Shit. Dean was pretty screwed.

Then Dean felt a whuff of breath against his ear, the press of a large nose against his shoulder. He twisted around, almost falling on his ass, and found the stallion from the stables standing behind him. It stared at him, tossed its mane.

_Dean. Go._

Dean staggered back, looked around wildly for the source of the voice. The horse made a disgruntled noise and nosed at Dean again, trying to get his attention.

Dean patted the stallion absentmindedly, wondering how long it was going to be before the crones caught up with him. He should start moving again, as soon as he could get his legs to work.

_Goddamnit, Dean!_

Dean paused. "Dad?" His voice cracked. "Am I -"

_No, you're not dead, but you goddamn will be if you don't get on that horse. They're after you. Their curiosity only protects you so far, son._

"Hate horses," Dean managed. The adrenaline rush was starting to wear off, and the exhaustion that replaced it was close to overwhelming. "And I can't. Too damn tired."

The voice sighed. _I know._

And suddenly there were arms around Dean's waist. Strong, invisible arms swinging Dean up to sit astride the horse, followed by a familiar grunt of exertion and a strong grip on his shoulder as Dean sagged forward. Dean found his hands wrapped tight in the stallion's mane, and he held on as the horse lurched forward, thick muscles shifting and coiling beneath Dean's thighs.

The horse seemed to fly through the forest, and Dean held on, even though every jolt in the horse's stride made Dean's shoulder sing with pain. The voice was gone, like it had never been there, and of course it hadn't. Just Dean's imagination, not an Obi-Wan moment. _Use the horse, Luke_.

Dean curled forward, letting the constant aches and the jarring rhythm of the galloping horse lull him into a half-asleep daze. He laughed into the stallion's rough mane.

He was _free_.

 

*

 

Almost twelve hours after they'd taken Dean, and Sam was only now returning to the forest. He still had no idea where to look for Dean, but he'd comb the entire forest if he had to.

Sam's frantic rush had calmed since Timothy had given him the book, but he was still bone-deep afraid. He'd convinced himself that Baba Yaga wouldn't hurt Dean because she'd be curious to see if the curse-breaking worked - that's what Baba Yaga was all about, after all, knowledge and the power that comes from it - but Sam knew that he could just as easily be wrong. Dean could be dead now, with the creepy witch ladies cracking open his bones for the marrow.

He'd called Bobby just to check the specifics of the spell (and listen to Bobby curse him and call him ten kinds of idiot, which Sam had happily ignored, because it didn't matter what the spell involved as long as it saved Dean), and then Sam had stopped at a Walgreens on the way to the lake, picking up some provisions and some of the vital ingredients for the spell.

For all Sam knew, he wouldn't be able to find Dean for days. He wanted to be prepared, wanted to be able to perform the ritual as soon as he and Dean got back to the motel. And most of all, he didn't want to give Dean any time to question it.

Sam was ready. He would grab a flashlight, a shotgun and a backpack full of supplies, and Sam would comb every inch of this damn forest. He would find his brother, dead or alive.

Sam pulled up to the edge of the woods and cut the engine. He climbed out of the Impala, dragging his pack along the seat and hoisting it over his shoulders.

He hadn't even turned toward the forest yet when he heard his name called.

"Sam?"

Sam stared.

His brother stood at the woods' edge, sending Sam a pale and shaky smile. "Samuel Winchester, I presume?" Dean said weakly.

"Holy shit," said Sam, and the relief that passed over Dean's face was like a fucking sunrise.


	5. are reaching for the sun that shines

PART FIVE: _are reaching for the sun that shines_

 

Dean was so fucking glad to see him.

Sam was looking pasty and kind of shocked - not really a good look for his kid brother - but Dean didn't care, because Sam was _here_. Dean just had to stop and stare for a second, gathering his breath. The horse had dumped Dean off a few yards back from the edge, then disappeared back into the woods, leaving Dean to exhaustedly stagger toward the lights of the Impala.

His time with the Baba Yagas seemed like a weird dream, full of weird twists and bizarre commands, and Dean still wasn't sure how long he'd actually been gone.

"Dean," said Sam, striding toward him quickly. "You got out? You're -" Then, when Dean didn't respond in the next two seconds like Sam apparently wanted him to: "_Dean!_"

"Hey," said Dean, annoyed now - couldn't Sam let him have his overjoyed reunion in peace? Dean was jumping on the _inside_ \- but still so goddamned thankful, "You don't have to shout, I'm right -"

Sam reached out and grabbed Dean, hauling him into a tight, fierce hug. His hands scrabbled and clung to Dean's shirt, knotting it between his fingers. "Shit," he breathed in Dean's ear. "_Dean._"

Dean patted Sam awkwardly on the back, but Sam didn't let go of him, and Dean took a long-suffering sigh and let himself relax into Sam's arms. Sam was warm, and the feel of him was so comforting and familiar that Dean never wanted to move again.

"Yeah, that's my name," said Dean. "Don't say it so much or everyone'll want one."

Sam snorted and pulled away, keeping a grip on Dean's shoulders, like he didn't trust Dean not to disappear. Abruptly, he bent his head and kissed Dean on the mouth.

The kiss lasted a split second, then Sam drew away. "Listen," Sam said. "I found the cure."

Dean blinked, not quite tracking. His mouth tingled. "The cure?"

"To the curse, man. I already got all of the ingredients, and it won't be hard to put together. You'll be okay."

Dean just stared at him. A cure? Now? But he and Bobby had looked everywhere -

Dean was so busy trying to make sense of the sudden swelling of hope in his chest that he didn't notice at first when the ground abruptly started to tip sideways.

"You'll be _okay_," Sam repeated, his voice thick, and then: "Jesus, Dean -" and Sam caught him as Dean's legs gave out.

Sam was talking to him, but so faintly that Dean couldn't hear. Patterns of black and fuschia crawled across Dean's vision, eating up Sam's face, and then there was nothing but nothing.

 

*

 

Sam slid down to the ground with Dean and cradled Dean into his lap like a child. Dean was limp, and his eyes weren't focusing. As Sam watched, Dean gave a shudder and his eyes rolled back into bloodshot white slits.

"Oh, God, oh, Jesus, no," and Sam shook Dean by the shoulder for a moment, trying to bring him round, before he realized Dean wasn't breathing. "Shit, shit, goddamnit, _motherfuck_ \--"

Sam knew CPR, but he'd rarely had the chance to put it into practice. He tried then, pinching Dean's nostrils together and breathing into his mouth. He felt Dean's chest expand under his palm, Dean's heart still beating weakly. After doing it a few times, Sam was panting for his own air, but finally Dean was breathing on his own again.

But despite the small victory, Sam felt strangled with dread. His head was pounding. It was happening. Dean was dying.

The ritual couldn't wait until they got back to the motel.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut a second, then stood up, hooked his arms under Dean's armpits, and dragged him off the grass and onto the concrete. He had chalk in the trunk of the car along with the book and other supplies, and he drew a rough outline of the ceremonial circle.

Once everything was set up, Sam grit his teeth, picked Dean up and laid him down carefully inside the symbols, careful not to disturb the chalk. Dean lay still as death.

"Okay," Sam said to himself. "Okay."

He stripped off Dean's shirt. Sam winced when he peeled it over Dean's shoulders; there had been a few bruises before, but now they covered Dean's entire torso. They spelled out obscene, brutal things in shapes of yellowed skin and burst blood vessels.

Sam pulled out a kid's paintbrush, a brightly colored plastic brush with cheap bristles. It had been the only thing the local Walgreens had. He got out a cheap paper Dixie cup and pricked one of the smaller veins in his arm with a Swiss Army knife. It hurt like hell, but Sam'd had worse; he rubbed at the cut, urging the flow of blood into the Dixie cup until it was a third of the way full and Sam's arm was starting to tingle.

Dipping his yellow Crayola brush into the blood, Sam kept an eye on the appropriate page of the book and started the first symbol - a stylized grain of wheat, placed directly over a nasty blackened bruise on Dean's ribs. Sam's blood looked thin and watery on Dean's skin, beading up like drops of rainwater. It steamed a little as Sam completed the symbol. Sam wasn't sure that the symbols were supposed to do that, but he kept going.

A curled slash of a lion, right over the bruise on Dean's shoulder. A jackrabbit over Dean's heart. At the base of Dean's throat, the shape of a bird for breath and freedom.

Baba Yaga hadn't quite provided Sam with the _cure_; she'd given Sam a loophole. The curse on Dean was unbreakable, he and Bobby had gotten that right. But there was a way to confuse the curse, make it so that the curse didn't have anything to grip onto anymore.

The only problem was that the curse had latched onto Dean's _life_ \-- his soul, spirit, the energy that kept everything in his body ticking. It had Dean's essence in a stranglehold, and the only way to alleviate the curse was to share the weight. Give Dean someone else's life.

It was a price that Sam was more than willing to pay.

Sam painted the last symbol, a spiral over Dean's sternum. The spell was ready. All it needed was Sam to complete the circuit.

There was no going back from this. They'd be bound, Dean's life linked to Sam's forever. And more than that, Dean's continued existence would be based on Sam remaining alive himself. That was what Bobby had railed at Sam about - if Sam died, so would Dean. Within seconds. _If you get yourself killed, you both go down._

Part of Sam thought that Dean might not be too averse to that outcome, anyway. Dean had told him, years before, that he didn't want to outlive Sam. He'd been drunk, of course, and Sam had hoped at the time that Dean didn't mean it, but he'd always suspected that Dean had.

Sam would never know for sure, of course, but it made it easier to think that Dean would be okay with his plan.

_You're playing God,_ Bobby had said.

_I'm saving his life,_ Sam replied.

Both statements were true, perhaps, but only one of them was important.

Sam pressed his knife into his palm, sharp-side down, and squeezed until blood welled up thick and black. Then he grabbed Dean's hand and made a similar slice across the palm.

"I call on those that sleep," Sam said, and seized Dean's sliced hand with his own, squeezing tightly, feeling the ebbing flow of Dean's blood against his skin. The words felt strange in his mouth, too casual. Sam was used to Latin, to chanting, crosses and holy water. But this was self-magic, blood magic; the words had to be Sam's own.

"Those who wait for morning, I call them. Those who wait for dusk, I call them. Those who have never left, I call them. Three times for three faces: Wake. Wake. Wake. Grandmother, mother, sister. You hold the threads, now tie them."

Sam took a piece of cord from his pocket and wrapped it around his and Dean's clenched hands. "Make one new line from two. I spread the words, I make them rhyme. I tie them tight, I give them time. Some of mine is his… some of his is mine."

Sam closed his eyes. "Please." _God_, Sam added silently, reluctant to name his own god out loud amidst the call for more ancient forces. _Please let this work._

Suddenly, Sam felt a tugging sensation in his chest, a sudden flutter of his heart. Sam's throat closed up and his heart felt like it was about to pound out of his chest. He folded up over Dean, all of Sam's muscles giving a sudden spasm, like something was being tugged from every inch of his body and then forced back in.

As suddenly as the strange feeling seized him, it passed, leaving Sam with shivers and a mouthful of blood from where he'd bit his tongue. He swallowed hard, even though the taste almost made him gag.

Sam pressed his head to Dean's chest, listening to his heart. Strong and rhythmic, exactly in tune with Sam's. Shared.

"It worked," Sam said quietly. "Hey, Dean, it worked, you can wake up now."

Dean remained still.

Sam twisted away from Dean and spit on the ground, trying to clear the taste of blood from his mouth. Once his head was bowed, he just left it there, breathing deeply through the new feeling that seized his chest.

It wasn't anything to do with the spell this time; it was just the sudden realization that this was _it_ \-- Dean was safe, Dean would be fine, but if Sam screwed up, or if Sam got himself killed somehow, Dean would _die_ -Dean's _life_ was in Sam's fucking hands now.

Sam panted a few panicky breaths before pulling himself together, adding the sense of responsibility to the list of stuff to think about later, when his brother wasn't lying unconscious in front of him. Fuck. He wondered if he was only now feeling what Dean must have felt for years.

He turned back to Dean and shook his shoulder. Dean needed to be awake. Dean needed to be awake, alive and healthy, and then he needed to tell Sam what the hell they were going to do with the rest of their lives.

Sam spared a second to wonder what Dean's reaction would be if he found out what Sam had done. He pressed his mouth into a thin line, then swiped his hand across the symbols on Dean's chest, smearing them into one big sticky, bloody smudge.

Sam didn't have to wonder; Dean just wasn't going to find out.

 

*

 

Dean came drifting back to consciousness slowly. Sensations took a while to register, but eventually Dean figured out that he was lying on the floor, covered in a blanket. There was something sticky and cool on his forehead. Sam was kneeling beside him, blurry and washed-out, and he was holding Dean's hand. He could feel the pressure of Sam's grip more than he could actually feel Sam's hand; everything seemed very tingly and far away, like he was on heavy-duty painkillers.

"What," Dean said, and it echoed. "Sam?"

Sam squeezed his hand, causing it to ache dully. "Hey."

There was a smell of smoke in the air, wood and sage. He could taste blood in the back of his throat.

Dean closed his eyes, and opened them again some time later - it could have been a few seconds, it could have been an hour. Sam was gripping Dean's shoulders, trying to lift him, but he stilled when he saw Dean was awake.

"Dean?" said Sam. "I have to move you, okay?"

Dean tried to nod. Sam helped him sit up, braced one shoulder under his arm and hoisted Dean upright. Dean took a couple of panting breaths, leaning against Sam while he adjusted to standing.

They were still on the very edge of the forest; Sam had dragged him out a little further towards the road and laid him down on the blacktop overlook. There were smeared chalk symbols all around where Dean had been laying, along with a few piles of burnt sage, some melted candles and some splashes of what looked like blood.

"So," said Dean weakly, "Ritual, huh?"

"Yeah, man," said Sam. "You missed all the fun."

Sam helped Dean over to the Impala, leaning him against the side of the car as he got the passenger side door open. As soon as Dean had slumped down into the seat, Sam was there, pressing a hand against Dean's forehead as if he expected Dean to have a little kid fever.

"I'm going to get some towels from the trunk, okay?"

Dean looked at Sam closely and tried to figure out how much the ritual might have taken out of him. Sam looked okay, if a bit exhausted, but Dean knew that the curse hadn't been a light one. Any ritual to break it would have required a lot more than a visit to a local friendly pagan shop for some smudge sticks.

"Towels?" echoed Dean. "Why do..."

It was then that Dean realized he was covered in blood.

"Jesus," said Dean, squinting down at his chest. "What the hell is all this?"

"Don't worry," said Sam wanly. "Most of it's mine."

Dean sent Sam a withering look, checking out Sam's color as he was at it. Sam's blood? He looked a little bit pale, but not bad. There was a bandage wrapped around one of Sam's hands, and, once Dean noticed that, he noticed a matching bandage on his left hand. He flexed it a little, but it made his palm sting like a bitch.

"What, are we blood brothers now?"

"Something like that," said Sam. He squeezed Dean's wrist, then got up to get the towels.

The towels were ratty, threadbare things that they'd stolen from a motel ages ago. They'd lost any trace of the pristine white they used to be, but no matter how many times Dean and Sam had washed them, they still kept the same sandpaper texture. Sam pulled out a couple more, still white, that Dean figured Sam must have lifted sometime in the past couple days.

The towels turned a terrifying shade of pink-brown as Sam sponged the blood off Dean's skin.

"What'd you do, Sammy?" Dean tried to reach out and squeeze Sam's shoulder, but a sudden wave of exhaustion hit him and he slumped back against the seat. "What the hell did you do?"

"I'll tell you later," said Sam. "Just sleep for now, okay? I'm getting you out of here."

 

*

 

Dean woke up again in a warm tangle of blankets. The room was dark, but the heavy drapes in the window showed a bright rectangle of light around the edges, bright with afternoon sun.

"Hey," Sam said softly. Dean felt a gentle touch on his forehead. Sam was lying on top of the blankets, tucked close to Dean's side. "How're you feeling?"

"Like an elephant sat on me," Dean said scratchily. "Oh, wait, that's you. What are you doing in bed with me, dude?"

Sam made some motion that looked like a sideways shrug. "Waiting for you to wake up. You've been out for a while. Are you okay? Any headaches? Pain?"

Dean stretched experimentally. He still felt exhausted, his shoulder was still fucked up, and his hand was aching where Sam had sliced it, but the bone-deep tiredness he'd become used to over the past few months was gone. His exhaustion felt _good_. Natural.

"I'm fine," Dean said wonderingly. "Everything's a little fuzzy, but I'm good."

Sam smiled at him. "Good."

"How long have I been sleeping?"

"Oh," said Sam, "A couple days. But that's got nothing on some of the naps you take, dude."

"Smartass." Dean gave Sam a lazy poke in the shoulder. "So, man, what the hell happened?"

Dean was especially curious as to what kind of ritual Sam had found that required him to use his blood like barbeque sauce. If Sam really had managed to break the curse, he must have used some really fucking dark magic, and Dean might possibly have to take Sam out back and kick his ass for being such an idiot.

Sam grinned wider. "Well, I was at the library, looking for a way to find out where Baba Yaga took you, when I heard the librarians talking about this kid who'd just moved back from New York City recently."

"Oh yeah?" Dean tried to sound interested.

"Yeah. Turns out this Timothy knew about Baba Yaga. He was the one telling kids where to find her. And..." Sam trailed off for a moment, then continued. "Baba Yaga gave Timothy a book to give to me. I'd never even heard of the book before. But it had a spell that would work on your curse. It, uh, acted to confuse the curse, make it think it wasn't cast on the right person anymore."

Dean kept listening, even though his brain was screeching, _Yeah, right._

"That's what the blood was for," Sam continued. "Part of the ceremony involved changing your, like, _aura_ just a little - not enough that you'll even notice it, but the demon's curse was so tied into _you_, specifically, that it..." Sam waved a hand in the air. "Y'know."

Dean blinked. "Bullshit."

Sam went still. "What?"

Dean pushed himself up on his elbows, swatting Sam away when Sam tried to help. "I said _bullshit_, Sam. I want to know what the hell you did. Bring me the book."

"I can't," Sam said, all wounded expression and _Dean, how could you doubt me?_ eyes. "I left it by the woods when I took you back here."

"Oh, that's convenient," Dean snarled. "You're nuts about keeping track of books, Sam, always have been. It's like a fucking reflex for you. Bring me the book."

"I don't have it. Dean, sit down!"

Dean ignored him and stood, shuffling over to the door. When he was halfway there, dizziness swept over him, knocking him off-balance, and Sam caught his elbow angrily.

"Dean, I don't have the book. I left it. I'm sorry. But if you're thinking - I swear, it was nothing bad, it wasn't dark magic. I made sure. You're cured, and that's it, no strings."

"Sam -"

"I _swear_ to you, Dean."

Dean stared at Sam's face, trying to figure out if Sam was telling the truth or had just become an even better liar sometime in the past two years.

"I don't believe you," Dean said. "I'm going to call Bobby."

Sam's face fell, like he'd actually expected Dean to just take his word for it. "Go ahead," he said angrily. "He'll tell you. I checked it with Bobby as soon as I found the damn spell."

"Fine. Whatever. Uh. Where's my phone?"

Sam handed his cell over without a word, and Dean shuffled back to sit on the end of the bed, hitting "SEND" on Bobby's number.

"Yeah?" Bobby answered.

"Bobby," said Dean. "It's Dean."

"Good to hear your voice, boy," Bobby replied. "How are you holding up?"

"Um." Dean tried to ignore Sam's death-glare. "I wanted to ask you about this, this thing that Sam found."

Bobby was silent for a long moment, then said, "Yeah. It was pretty incredible that he found something that would break the curse."

"That's what I thought," Dean said. "So, uh, what was it?"

"It's not so much what it _was_, Dean," said Bobby, "It's that he found a loophole in the original curse. For such a heavy son of a bitch, that curse sure fell hard."

"This aura crap, you mean?" Dean swallowed. "So that's really it? I'm all curse-free and dandy?"

"I wouldn't say dandy," said Bobby, his voice cracking a smile. "But yeah, Dean. You're gonna be just fine."

The relief was so unexpected that it made Dean's head swim. He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. "Bobby, what aren't you telling me? And don't you fucking lie to me."

There was another long pause. "Nothing you need to know," Bobby said finally. "Sam was careful." Pause. "He's a good man, your brother. He loves you."

"I know," said Dean. "I know. Okay."

"Let me talk to Sam," said Bobby, and Dean obligingly handed the phone over before flopping back on the bed with a sigh.

Sam listened to whatever Bobby was saying, then said only, "Yeah, Bobby, I know," before he flipped the phone shut.

"He's glad you're okay," said Sam. He set the phone on the desk and stared at it. "And so am I."

"Yeah." Dean started to chuckle. "Shit, Sam. I'm going to _live_."

Sam looked at him like he was crazy, then he started to laugh, too. "You're going to live," he agreed.

Dean, overcome with the moment, raised his arms in the universal symbol of _rock on_.

"You _dork_," said Sam, still laughing.

"Whatever," said Dean. "You're dork-er. Dorkier." He sat up on the bed. "Now c'mere already."

Sam approached him cautiously. "What?"

Dean spread his arms. "I know you're over there with a major hankering for some girly hugging. So hug away. I'll just lay back and think of England while you're pawing all over me."

Sam gave him a look that was equal parts offended and yearning, but he was close enough that Dean could just grab Sam's arms and yank him off-balance. Sam landed on the bed almost on top of Dean, bouncing on the hard bedsprings with an undignified squawk.

Dean pulled Sam into his arms, ending up with Sam's face pressed against his neck and one of Sam's arms draped awkwardly over his side. Sam laughed uncomfortably.

"Uh, Dean?"

"Just so you know, this is going to meet our hug quota for the entire rest of our lives," said Dean.

Sam hesitated, then nodded, starting to relax a little more into Dean's embrace. And maybe Dean _had_ caught Sam a little off guard. Dean ignored the tickle of Sam's eyelashes against his neck and rested his hand on the back of Sam's head, carding his fingers through the crazy tangle of hair.

He blinked up at the textured ceiling, remembering the last time he'd held Sam like this. Sam might not even remember it, it'd been so long ago. Third grade, and Sam'd been upset over some girl that had called him a freak. Jeez. What had they known? They'd just been kids. They'd never lost anything except a mother back then.

Sam tried to get up, but Dean kept a firm grip on the back of Sam's neck and didn't ease up until Sam gave in and sank back onto the bed.

"This is so weird, dude," said Sam, but Dean wasn't fooled. Sam was eating this up.

"_You're_ weird," said Dean.

Sam chuckled. "I feel like I'm too old for this, but it's. Nice."

Dean cuffed the side of Sam's head. "Happy birthday, by the way."

"Thanks," said Sam. "Jeez, you know, I forgot all about it."

"Yeah." Dean rested his chin on the top of Sam's head. "Sorry I missed it."

Sam made a weird, choked noise and pressed closer, winding his other arm under Dean's waist and squeezing Dean tight.

"Easy," Dean said quietly. "Easy. I'm not going anywhere."

"I thought you were - I thought you were really going to die, Dean." Sam breathed wetly into Dean's shoulder. "I thought I was really going to lose you and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't _do_ anything. I thought I wasn't gonna be able to save you."

"But you did," said Dean. "You did. You did."

"I should've, I, don't," said Sam, not finishing the sentence, and Dean didn't even know what Sam thought he should've done, but it didn't matter. Dean just shook his head and pressed a kiss to Sam's temple. Sam's face was hot with stubborn, faint tears, and Dean just drew Sam closer, because there was girly crying and then there was _this_, and Sam needed it. Maybe Dean needed it, too.

It was a few minutes later when Sam tried to pull away again, and Dean let him. He blinked down at Dean, his face red and splotchy. There was something odd in his eyes, and Dean's breath caught as their gazes met. Something sparked there, something old and vital.

Sam blinked and looked away. "Sorry," he said quietly.

Dean snorted, drawing Sam's gaze back to him. "Dude," Dean said, and made a face as he plucked the sopping wet material of his T-shirt away from his shoulder. "Don't be sorry, man, just do the laundry. I feel like I've been attacked by a snot-monster."

"Couldn't have happened to a better brother," Sam said. He sniffed loudly and rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his own shirt. He didn't seem to realize that he was still sitting next to Dean on the bed, one leg pressed against Dean's side.

"Dude," said Dean, just to get Sam thinking about something else: "I'm starving. I'd kill for a cheeseburger."

Sam nodded jerkily. "Yeah, I'll go pick something up." He hesitated, then leaned down and kissed Dean on the cheek. Dean froze, and Sam drew away slowly.

"Sam?" Dean said, but Sam shook his head, cutting off the rest of Dean's words.

"We don't have to talk about it," Sam said, but it was less a statement than an order.

"Okay," said Dean.

Sam snorted. "That was way too easy."

Dean shrugged. "Talking's for pussies."

Sam's face relaxed, and Dean touched Sam's cheek. He rested his thumb at the corner of Sam's lips, and ignored the shivery feeling in his stomach when Sam's eyes turned warm and the edge of his mouth creased into a smile.

"I'll be back in a little bit, okay?" Sam said, and he took Dean's hand from his cheek and moved it back to Dean's side. "Just, I don't know. Sleep some more. Check out the motel's selection of porn. I'll be back soon."

"Jeez, Sam, you're going to get food, you're not going off to war."

Dean made grabby hands for the remote, and Sam handed it to him with a sigh.

Once Sam had left, Dean turned the TV on to the Home Shopping Network and stared through the screen, not seeing it, as he thought about Sam's smile, the feel of his mouth.

 

*

 

When Sam got back, Dean was asleep again, the light from the TV flickering over the inside of the room. Sam left the cheeseburger on the desk, still in its Styrofoam container piled high with greasy fries, and pulled the blankets over Dean, careful not to wake him.

Sam closed the door carefully as he left. It was still daylight, but the sun was already starting to go down. Perfect.

It was a bit disturbing that the long drive to the edge of the forest was becoming so familiar, but Sam comforted himself with the thought that he and Dean would be leaving tomorrow, and they'd never have to see this place again, ever.

But there was something that Sam had to do first.

Night was coming on quickly, and Sam could already see the moon hanging low and early in the light-blue sky, like it was too impatient for the sun to set before it showed up on the scene. He walked into the forest on the same meandering path he and Dean had taken on that first day, and it wasn't long before the branches around him started to stir.

"I know you're here," said Sam.

"Of course you do, boy," said Baba Yaga.

He turned, and Baba Yaga smiled at him. She was young, with long scraggly hair and a smile full of crooked brown teeth. She had a blue rose petal tucked behind one ear. At Sam's obvious surprise, she let out a mad laugh and gave a twirl, as if to show off her new youth.

"And you know why _I'm_ here," Sam added, ignoring her antics. She halted mid-twirl and gave a nod.

"They'll be here any moment," Baba Yaga said, and as soon as she had spoken Sam could hear the sound of horses.

The first rider whipped by, just a flash of white. Baba Yaga reached out and drew Sam away from the path.

"Day," said Sam. "'My bright Dawn.' That's what the books said."

Baba Yaga smiled, and the second rider came by at a gallop, a splash of red across Sam's vision.

"And the Sun," whispered Sam. "And next is Night. But I don't get it. What _are_ they?"

"You will never understand," said Baba Yaga. "But you can understand this much: there is no point in life if there are no answers. If you believe, then the knowledge will come, child, and that is why I am here. The tests, the punishments, it is because all the human folk need to _know_ something. I can provide."

"And eating people? Putting their heads on stakes?"

"You have already guessed this. Because there are some things _we_ want to know," Baba Yaga chuckled. "We wanted to know what the flesh tasted like, the ways that the bodies fit together, the ways that minds can stretch. There is no crime there."

Sam shook his head. "You're sick. You're sick and you're evil."

"You have no idea what evil is, child. I am not evil. I am just _old._" Baba Yaga curled her bare toes into the dirt and nodded at something over Sam's shoulder. "And there, there is what you seek."

Sam turned, and the black stallion was standing at the edges of the trees, sniffing at the tufts of grass under its hooves. Sam's father sat astride the huge beast, peering down at Sam with a smile on his face.

"It is not him," said Baba Yaga.

"I know," Sam whispered. The illusion was almost perfect, but there was a blur to John's face as he moved, like a streak of motion on a video recording. Anything that was actually John Winchester was only in Sam's mind.

"But it is close enough," said Baba Yaga. "He is a reflection, that is all, but who is anything else? Reflections in others eyes and hearts, that is all anybody is, it is how they are formed. This is your father, fresh from your memory, _real_."

Sam took a step forward. "Hey, Dad."

John smiled. "Hey, kiddo."

"I," Sam shook his head. "I don't know what to say."

"You wanted to ask him a question, yes?" Baba Yaga prompted.

"And I suppose you already know what I'm going to ask, huh?" said Sam. "Mind enlightening me?"

Baba Yaga made a clucking sound. "Of course I do not know. Why do you think I am letting you stand here? Ask quickly, boy, before I grow tired of this."

"Shut up, you old hag," snapped the reflection of John Winchester, his voice authoritative and _pissed_. "And leave us alone. I'm talking to my son, here."

She gave an offended growl but backed off, glaring, and Sam smiled.

"You know, Dad, I've really missed you."

"Yeah, I know," said John. "And I've missed you, too. Well," he gave a shrug, "If you _can_ miss anyone when you're dead. I'm not really sure on that one."

Sam crossed his arms. "Um. So, a question. I don't know how the hell you would even answer this, but - I do have a question."

"Kind of ironic, you asking me for advice _now_," John laughed. "Go ahead, Sammy." He leaned forward on his horse, craning his neck to see Sam's face.

"Is it _over?_" Sam curled his fingers into his arms, gripping hard. "Is it - because, the demon is gone, Dad, we got rid of him. And now Dean is safe, too, but I don't know if it's over, or if something else is going to pop up and try to make our lives hell, and I just - I don't think I can do this again."

"Sam," said John, his voice low. "You came a hell of a long way for a happy ending."

Sam let out a snort of disbelief. "What does that even _mean,_ Dad?"

"It means you're right, no one can answer that." John looked at Sam intently, blurry-dark eyes in a serious face. "But you're asking the wrong thing."

He shifted in his saddle and looked up at the darkening sky. "You see, it's not a matter of being over. It's not _over_ until you've wound up where I am. But you can be happy now, son. You can be happy where you are."

Sam followed his father's gaze, watching the moon appear over the trees. "I lied to Dean."

"So did I," John said. "And I think you did the right thing, if that makes you feel any better. You saved his life. When it's family, the cost doesn't matter."

"God," said Sam, "Sometimes I think I'm turning into you."

John chuckled. "Should I be apologizing?"

"Dad, if you're just... what's in my head, then you know what I'm thinking. About Dean."

John's face darkened. "I know that you've finally realized that you can have a fresh start. If Dean takes off again, you know that you can give him up. Stop waiting, go back to California and make a _real_ life for yourself."

Sam's realization was too new for him to feel comfortable hearing it from someone else, even if the someone else was in his mind. He shifted on his heels. "But that's not my first choice."

His father sighed. "What do you want me to say, Sam? You want my blessing? You don't have it. I'm your father - both of you - and I can't condone it. In fact, I wish I didn't have to even think about it."

"Right," said Sam. "Of course." He wished for a moment that his mental image of his father were a little less like the real thing. Sam felt distinctly like he'd just been slapped down.

"Oh, hell, don't get like that. How did you expect me to react? You're my _sons_."

"But I love him." Sam clenched his jaw. "And I _want_ him, Dad."

"You burned me, so I can't exactly turn over in my grave," John said sharply. "I don't want that for you, Sam. You don't understand the consequences. If you're _with_ him, you think either of you'd let go after that? What happens if you want to settle down, raise a family? What if Dean does?"

Sam shook his head. "It doesn't matter. We'll figure it out. I just, Dad, I - I want him to be my first choice. He deserves that."

"I'll agree with that much," said John. He sighed heavily. "And you've never had a problem telling me to go to hell before, so don't start justifying yourself now. I'll start thinking you've lost your touch."

The outline of John's body started to waver. Whatever time they'd had was running out.

"Go to hell, Dad." Sam tried to smile and blinked back tears. He'd done enough crying today. "Dad, are you happy?"

John smiled. "I'm not happy, Sam, I'm just dead. But there's not that much of a difference. Tell Dean I love him, okay? And I'm proud of him."

"I will," said Sam.

"And Sam, I trust you to do the right thing. Always have."

"Dad," said Sam, "Dad, I -"

"Enough of this," said Baba Yaga.

John Winchester wobbled, fizzed, and melted away to nothing. The stallion, riderless, trotted off into the forest shadows.

"I love you," Sam finished.

It didn't matter that the rider was gone. Whatever had been John Winchester was still in Sam's memory, just the same as he'd always been. The thought was oddly comforting, like the sound of a startled, gruff laugh and the feel of a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder.

Sam turned and left the forest, ignoring Baba Yaga's annoyed ranting. He was done here.


	6. to love in the major key

PART SIX: _to love in the major key_

 

They left the next morning. Sam was still loading their bags in the car when Dean tapped him on the shoulder and held out his hand.

Sam looked at Dean, hesitated only a moment, and then handed the keys over.

Dean twirled the key ring around his finger, smiled and stroked a hand across the hood of the Impala. Sam climbed into the passenger seat, head tipped back in the sun, and nothing felt more right than the dip of the car as Dean sat behind the wheel, the familiar slam of the door, turn of the ignition, the sudden screech of electric guitars and heavy bass.

_\-- cause I'm back, yes, I'm back,_

Sam burst out laughing, and only laughed harder at Dean's raised eyebrow and the knowing quirk of Dean's lips.

_well, I'm back, back, I'm back in black --_

 

*

 

They stopped at a Cracker Barrel, and Sam decided there was something distinctly bizarre about the sight of Dean, crooked grin, leather jacket, his face grizzled and scarred, standing in the middle of the kitschy Cracker Barrel gift shop.

Dean seemed blissfully unaware of the absurdity, and ignored Sam in favor of snickering at the countrified knickknacks and making all the motion-detector frogs start ribbiting at once. The ensuing cacophony made Sam cringe, and a woman with frizzy, bright red hair came over to scowl at them.

"Snyder, party of two?" She sneered at Dean, who was carefully placing the tie-dyed Beanie Babies in compromising positions as Sam pretended not to know him. "Your table is ready."

"Man," Dean stage-whispered to Sam as they followed the woman's angry flounce. "I always forget how much I love this place."

"You just love traumatizing all the little kids," Sam replied.

"Sammy, I'm wounded. Deeply. I'll have you know -- oh, man, look at that guy's biscuits. I want biscuits. Biscuits and a big bowl of gravy. All that grease and lard and sausage and -- waffles! With syrup."

"You are _so gross._"

"Whatever." Dean poked Sam in the side. "Dude, I feel like I haven't eaten in like, a year."

With Dean's illness, that may have been close to the truth. Sam shut up after that.

They ended up at a table in the middle of the huge dining room, surrounded by squalling families and decrepit old people on all sides.

"Hey, Sam," Dean whispered. "Check out that guy over there in the corner. He's staring at us."

Sam looked quickly, still a little paranoid about old people staring at them in public places. There was, indeed, a guy sitting in the corner and looking in their direction. He was also about ninety years old and completely human.

"I think we should waste him," said Dean. "You can't be too careful these days."

Sam rolled his eyes and kicked Dean under the table.

Dean kicked him back, then left his foot next to Sam's, so close their ankles touched. Sam looked up at Dean, surprised, and Dean wouldn't meet his eyes, still nose-deep in the menu.

Dean didn't move his foot, though, and he didn't even flinch when Sam scooted his chair in until their legs were pressed together at the knee. Sam stared at the table, certain that all of the old people were glaring at them disapprovingly. When he looked up, though, no one was watching.

Dean tossed the menu aside. "I'm just gonna order one of everything. Goddamn, Sam, I love Cracker Barrel." He fiddled with one of the peg games that came on every table, plucking out the little golf tees and sending them rolling towards Sam across the sticky tabletop. Sam sent them rolling back.

"You're insane," said Sam. "That little girl thinks so, too."

Dean sent a blazing smile toward the pig-tailed little girl in question, and she squeaked and hid behind her mother's chair.

Sam leaned back, cautiously, stretching his leg out and ever so slightly hooking it behind Dean's knee, calf-to-calf. Dean's eyes flickered in Sam's direction, but he said nothing.

They stayed touching, just like that, for the rest of the meal. Sam could barely eat his eggs, too full of fearful, headstrong hope to think about filling his stomach with anything else.

 

*

 

Sam dozed off in the car, and when he woke up, Dean was pulling into a motel parking lot. It was still early, the afternoon filled with blazing sunlight.

"Sorry," Dean said when he saw that Sam was awake. He waved a hand at his face, at the fact he was wearing his sunglasses again. "Still not all the way up to snuff. Got too bright, eyes started acting up. Figured we could rest until dark."

"Sure." Sam yawned wide. "Yeah, that sounds good."

The motel room was dark as a cave, and Sam immediately went and sprawled on one of the beds. The fabric of the bedcover was cool against his skin. He could hear Dean rustling around in the dark, the rattle of metal, zippers being zipped and unzipped.

Sam closed his eyes, concentrating on those sounds. It was a strange feeling, to have made a decision so important, so life-altering, and yet not be sure anything would come of it. Sam assumed that Dean knew Sam wanted him; he must at least know that Sam touched him all the time for a reason, had asked Dean to stay in California two years ago for a _reason_, hell, had even kissed Dean -- and maybe that was more just because Sam had wanted to, but it still counted.

Sam was pretty sure that Dean was with him on this, but he didn't know. It was just a feeling Sam had. He had nothing to show as proof except the occasional look in Dean's eyes, and the fact that Dean still hadn't run screaming from Sam's advances.

He stretched his arms over his head, then sat up, focusing on Dean's dim silhouette.

"Dean?" Sam cracked his wrists, folded his hands together in his lap. Anxiety crawled in his stomach. "You're probably gonna laugh in my face over this, but -- I think we need to talk."

Dean stopped moving things around and just stood there, his back to Sam. He didn't say a word.

"I just wanted to tell you... I never used to, when we were kids. It's just -- after, and -- it seemed like the next thing. The only thing that could happen." He squeezed his eyes shut rather than stare at Dean's back. "I'm not explaining this very well."

"You're not explaining at _all_, Sammy. What are you talking about?"

Sam sighed. "You know what I'm talking about, Dean. You and me. This whole thing."

Dean's back stiffened. "Oh?" Sam couldn't read anything from his tone.

"We've been through a lot in the past couple of days, so maybe it's a bad time to bring all this up, but I just have to know, Dean."

Dean half-turned, but Sam still couldn't see his face. "What are you trying to ask me, Sam?"

Sam thought he was going to say something confident, maybe even suave: _Do you want me?_ or _You know I'm right, Dean,_ or even _So... you, me, and a king-size bed?_ \-- pretty much anything except what _did_ come out of his mouth, which was nothing, just a half-formed thought that had been held back for two years and suddenly broke loose.

"Is that why you left?" Sam's voice sounded choked and frightened to his own ears, like the kid he'd never really been.

Dean gave an obvious start, like he was surprised at the question, but he didn't say anything, not anything at all.

"Shit," said Sam. "God, Dean, you -- why did you let me --" He actually felt the humiliated blush as it spread over his skin, making the hair on his arms prickle. His stomach clenched like it'd suddenly been hollowed out with a spoon.

"What?" Dean shook out of his surprise and took a couple steps toward Sam. "No, that's not why I left. Jesus, Sam."

Sam nodded jerkily. "Uh-huh." He closed his eyes, not wanting to watch Dean make excuses just so Sam could feel better.

"Goddamnit," Dean muttered.

Sam felt the bed dip beside him, the familiar smell of Dean's sweat. Dean's fingers encircled Sam's wrist.

"Okay," said Dean. "Okay. You want to know why I left. It's-- not that easy. I'll tell you what I've got to tell you, and then you can decide whether you're still, you know, whatever. Sound good?"

Sam opened his eyes, watched Dean bite his lip and stare at the wallpaper.

"So. You're the thing I love most in the whole fucking world, you know that," said Dean, and he said it, so it was. Just plain fact. "You're my brother. And even if you're a huge dork with stupid hair and a big forehead and a lousy sense of humor, you're still my brother, and... I'm not ever gonna just take off like that again. Never."

"Good," said Sam shakily. "You're my favorite brother, you know."

Dean snorted and punched Sam in the arm. It hurt. "Smartass. I'm your only brother."

"Yeah, but. The rest of it, too." Sam cleared his throat, but Dean raised a hand to cut him off.

"No. Still my turn, then you decide if you want to finish that. Till then, not a word."

Sam clenched his jaw but nodded. Dean got up and stalked across the room, turned half a pace, almost stalked back but then just traced the flowers on the wallpaper for a lack of anything else to do with his hands.

"I thought you were serious," said Dean. "When you asked me to live with you. I thought you were serious, and then I thought you _weren't_, and it fucked me up. I couldn't watch you. Fall in love."

"Dean --"

"Shut up, Sam. I couldn't, um. Watch you fall in love..." Dean swallowed. "With someone _else_."

"I don't understand," Sam said. "That's why you left?" His voice was barely there when he tried to use it. He wanted to take Dean's words at what he thought they meant, but he still couldn't be sure, couldn't take that final step without Dean just saying _yes_.

"Jesus, Sam, what the fuck is there to understand." Dean turned away from Sam and put his head in his hands.

"Explain it to me," and Sam took Dean's hand this time, the scarred one with its stiff, curled fingers, the hand where their blood had mingled and bound their lives together into yet another secret Sam could never tell. "Okay? I need it explained. Please. I need to hear it."

Dean just looked at where Sam's grip tightened against his skin, making white bloodless circles.

"Dean," said Sam.

"I wanted it," said Dean. "When you said 'stay,' I _wanted_ the dumb apartment and the dumb job and the dumb life."

He sounded breathless and lost, and Sam wanted just to fold up around him, hold him and not let go.

"I wanted to save people and kill evil things and then come home to someone and - and kiss them and hold them and fix them blueberry pancakes and eggs on freaking toast."

"I like blueberry pancakes," said Sam.

"I know," said Dean.

"You made them for me when I was little," said Sam.

"I _know_," said Dean, like that was the problem, rather than the easiest fucking answer in the world.

Sam swallowed. "You know, I did. I was serious. I wanted that, too."

"Yeah," and Dean looked at their hands again, twisted his palm around and interlocked his fingers with Sam's. "I knew that. But then you started making eyes at some girl, and I -- I freaked, man. And that's why I left. Because I'm an asshole, and I was jealous, and I know, it's no fucking excuse."

Sam took a breath. "You're an idiot."

Dean was an idiot, and Sam didn't care, because Dean wanted it, too -- the two of them, together in this life after the war was won; hoping, loving, clutching on to everything that was left and finding it to be enough.

 

*

 

Yeah, Dean was pretty much an idiot. He was maybe okay with that, though.

Dean took a breath and touched Sam's stomach, gently, with the backs of his fingertips. His hand felt frozen, like it wasn't really his. He clumsily stroked his fingers up the center of Sam's chest, up to the base of his neck, then he flattened the palm of his hand to the pulse beating there.

"You see, it's like this," said Dean. "It's, um. You have to ask me something."

"Right," said Sam. His pulse beat faster under Dean's hand, and just the feel of it amazed Dean for a moment. "Uh, what am I supposed to ask you?" said Sam, and he leaned into Dean's hand, just a little.

How many times had Dean felt his brother's pulse? He'd even felt Sam's blood pumping over his hands a time or two, when they'd been cut up and ripped to shreds after hunts gone bad. But then, Dean _was_ his brother's blood, wasn't he? Family, and Dean tried to ignore the nausea that threatened when he thought of _family_, of their father, of what Dad would think of them now.

Dean blinked himself back to the moment. "It's what she told me, okay? I asked her how to keep you safe, protect you, and she said that... you had to ask."

"Did she say if that protection would go both ways?" Sam offered him a smile that waned slightly, odd and self-conscious around the edges. "Cause, man, I don't think I can take much more of you dying on me."

"Yeah, I know," said Dean. "I'll try to lay off that for a while."

Sam looked down for a moment, deep in his head, then he squeezed Dean's hand. "I don't know what I'm supposed to ask you. And I think she's full of crap, anyway, because since when have you ever given me a straight answer on anything?"

"Plenty of times," Dean said. "I'm an open freaking book."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What about that time in fifth grade, when I asked you if you were going out with Georgia Franklin?'

Dean snickered.

"It's not funny!" Sam sputtered. "God, I thought her sister was gonna _kill_ me--"

"Shit, Sammy, I remember your _face_," Dean crowed, and while Dean was laughing, helpless for air, his eyes starting to tear up and turn his vision watery, Sam leaned over and kissed him.

Dean froze for a moment, just a moment, then he leaned into it, chuckling into Sam's mouth. Their teeth clacked together, and Sam's hand suddenly pressed against Dean's side, long fingers spanning Dean's ribs. Dean let himself fall back against the bed, and Sam followed him down, slinging a leg over Dean's and shoving his face into Dean's neck.

"Dean," he said to Dean's neck. "Dean, this is my question. Listen. Do you want this?"

Dean bumped Sam with his shoulder. "Yes. Yeah, I do."

"Are you sure?" said Sam.

"Oh, for crying out loud, you only get one question," said Dean, and he rolled both of them over, shutting Sam up with his mouth.

 

*

 

The sun set gently outside a nameless motel room. Deep in the forest, hundreds of miles away, a black horse ran a curtain of night across a well-tread path. It wove between the trees at a gallop, scratching past branches and twigs. It had no rider.

 

*

 

"Hey," Sam said suddenly. Dean looked up from sharpening some blades, and Sam glanced over, pale in the light of the laptop screen. "That Timothy kid?" he continued. "Just -- look at this."

Sam flipped the computer around, and Dean read the headline on the screen. _Local Boy Found Dead In Hemlock Lake._

"Shit," said Dean. "Suicide, you think?"

"I don't think so." Sam stared into space. "He wanted to be a doctor. He told me."

"Sam, we just took off and left those bitches there." Dean swallowed, thought of those three days that could have been either months or hours, the heads on spikes, the bits of flesh caught in the sink drain. Elizabeth. It turned his stomach. "We still need to do something about them."

"No," said Sam sharply. "We don't. Look, Dean -- Timothy was an okay kid, but he knew he was messing with heavy shit. He got himself killed. That's all."

"So, what, you're saying the guy just deserved it?"

"That's not what I'm saying!" Sam sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "Look. I know they messed with your head, Dean -- hell, they messed with mine, too. But we can't kill them, and you know what? I'm not sure we should even try. They're immortal for a _reason_."

"Yeah, what reason? To be a huge pain in my ass?" Dean tested the edge of his knife. "I get what you're saying, Sam, but Baba Yaga? No matter which one it is -- they're all evil. They're gonna keep killing. How can we say that's okay?"

Sam shook his head. "It's not okay, but... we don't even know how long they've been in that forest, Dean. It could have been centuries. And for every person like Timothy, or those other kids, how many do you think they helped?"

Dean sighed. "I don't like it."

"Neither do I, but. They saved your life." Sam paused. "They're not evil, Dean, they just... they don't care. They only care about knowledge, and finding the answers no one else can find. I mean, hell, they're a _fairy tale_. How can we kill a fairy tale?"

"We're keeping an eye on them," said Dean, gesturing at Sam with his knife. "You hear me? And if anyone else turns up dead, I don't care if they're a fairy tale or if they're freaking cartoons. I'll nail the damn bitches' feet to the floor."

"Deal," said Sam.

Dean went back to sharpening the knives, and it was several minutes before he glanced up again. Sam blinked and looked away quickly, like he'd been caught staring. Color rose in his cheeks as Dean watched.

How about that. Dean ducked his head and concentrated hard on the knives to hide his grin.

 

*

 

When they were little, Dean used to think he knew everything about Sam. Kept thinking that, too, well into Sam's teens and early twenties. Then, after Dad, after the demon, Dean realized he didn't know shit. He kept second-guessing everything, until he didn't even know how Sam felt anymore, and didn't have the first clue what Sam wanted.

Dean was still somewhat amazed that he'd managed to overlook his little brother's feelings for him for so long. Not that he _should_ have been looking for them, but still. It would have saved them both a lot of pain.

Now, Dean felt like he was getting to know Sam again. And this time he was getting to know a lot of new, interesting parts along with the old ones. Namely, naked parts.

All the things Dean had known about Sam -- the way Sam moved, the way he walked, his favorite color, the things sure to set Sam off in an argument, hell, even which side of Sam's mouth would start to smile first, just everything -- with the addition of sex, even the things Dean had memorized were all raw and new. The way Sam gasped under Dean's touch, the way he mouthed at Dean's neck… the way Sam moved when he was naked under Dean was unfamiliar and yet remarkably, stunningly, fantastically the same. Dean fucking _loved_ it.

They didn't move on to the naked parts immediately. In fact, it was a few weeks after Hemlock Lake when they both finally gave up on pretending that everything was normal. Normal didn't exactly include Dean turning off all the lights and making out with Sam for hours every night. Normal didn't really cover the way Sam couldn't stop watching Dean, or the way Dean had to keep touching Sam, because goddamn, but he _could_ touch Sam if he wanted.

Finally, fifty miles outside Mobile, Sam slid his hand over the seam of Dean's jeans and said, "Pull over at the next motel, and get the room for a week. I don't care how much of a shithole it is."

Sam went ahead to the room while Dean raided the vending machine for Coke and pretzels. When Dean entered the room, he didn't even get a chance to see if it _was_ a shithole before Sam was on him, slamming Dean up against the wall and groping him everywhere through his clothes.

They kissed until their mouths were slick and raw. Dean broke away, shuddering, when he realized that he was humping Sam's thigh like the world was ending.

"Oh, _fuck_ \--"

Sam tried to kiss Dean again, but Dean turned his head away. Sam would just have to try again later once Dean could actually feel his lips again. Instead, he rocked up against Sam's leg again, gripping Sam's shoulders through thin, sweaty fabric.

"Mm," hummed Sam. He squeezed a hand between them and palmed Dean's dick. "Dean? Dean, fuck me."

Dean jerked and came, searing-hot pleasure rocketing through him and sending his head back into the wall with a thump. "Oh Jesus _ow_," he panted.

"Or not," said Sam.

"No," said Dean. "I mean, yes. Jesus. Not _now_." His jeans were a sticky mess, and his brain was in an even sorrier state.

Sam made a helpless noise and slumped against Dean's neck, letting out a huff of air against Dean's skin. "Uh. Okay. We don't have to."

"No, I want to," said Dean, even though he wasn't quite sure. Fucking Sam sounded great in theory, but -- it was _Sam_. Dean's little brother. Kissing and orgasms were one thing, but putting dicks in asses was something else entirely. The thought of it turned Dean on and made him feel a little queasy, all at once. "Just, I kinda can't right now, dude."

Sam gave a little chuckle. "Yeah, I know. But--"

"Later," said Dean. "We'll fuck, we'll -- fuck. We'll do everything."

Dean ran his fingers down Sam's spine, slowly counting the knobs of bone. Sam gave a squirm and rolled away from Dean, his T-shirt pushed up into his armpits and his jeans tangled around his knees. He tried unsuccessfully to extricate himself, and finally Dean just reached over and yanked Sam's T-shirt up over his head.

Sam batted Dean's hands away and swung a leg over Dean's thighs. Dean's whole body jerked, suddenly realizing that Sam was completely naked, and this -- this was so far from okay, yet so far from bad. It was so far from anything that Dean didn't even know how to name it. He shivered.

"You'll fuck me," Sam murmured. "You'll -- hey. Let me see you." Sam reared up and straddled Dean's thigh and wrestled Dean's jeans down just far enough to reveal Dean's sticky boxers and lazy, spent cock. God. Sam was fucking gorgeous, completely naked without an ounce of shame. He was just a long stretch of skin and muscle that waited for Dean's touch.

"Or, would you let me fuck you, Dean? I could just, I could--" Sam was losing it already, words gone muffled behind his teeth. He was rutting against Dean's leg in a loose, crazy rhythm. The flesh of Sam's dick was hot against Dean's jeans-covered thigh, the head of it swollen dark pink and wet at the tip. Dean brought his leg up between Sam's, forcing Sam to come up on his knees like some kind of Greek statue, ass pressed against Dean's thigh and hands clutching at Dean's T-shirt. He wrapped a hand around Sam's cock and gave it a few good yanks. Sam lurched forward with each yank, saying "oh, oh, oh," and underneath the rush of heat in his gut, Dean had the rather inappropriate thought that it was like pulling the voice box cord on an oversized baby doll.

Sam's arms gave out, and he pitched forward, draping over Dean's chest, sweaty and slick sliding against Dean's skin where Dean's shirt had ridden up. Dean didn't realize that Sam had come at first, not until his hand came away from Sam's dick wet with a couple thick smears of sticky jizz. Sam pressed a kiss to Dean's collarbone and rolled off him, collapsing on the bed next to Dean.

They lay there, breathing heavily. Dean managed to kick off his jeans and struggle out of his T-shirt, and as soon as he was naked, Sam gave a sigh and tucked himself against Dean's side. His hands started roaming all over Dean's skin, gentle, just enough to get the lay of the land and not enough to wake lil' Dean again. Dean returned the favor, let his fingers sketch out the spaces on Sam where he was gonna put his mouth later.

"Go to sleep," Sam murmured.

"You first," Dean replied.

"No, _you_ first," Sam said, but Dean was pretty sure that he was already asleep as he said it.

Dean wasn't sure when he joined Sam in sleep. The feeling of core-deep contentment gave way to dreams that were nearly indistinguishable from reality: dreams where he lay next to Sam and they touched each other. Every new brush of skin left splotches of light behind, until they were both fuzzy with glowing neon incandescent patterns, bright enough for anyone to see.

When they woke up, Dean got busy on familiarizing himself with Sam again, this time with particular focus on the naked parts. Sam just laughed, occasionally joining in Dean's running commentary.

It was a good week.

 

*

 

"You want to go back home yet?" asked Dean. "I'm sure that Matt guy is probably wondering where you are."

"Mark, you mean? Yeah, probably." Sam leaned back in the passenger seat a little and stretched his feet out as far as they would go. "I think I'm good, though."

Dean probably thought he was hiding his smile pretty well, but Sam could see it. "Okay," Dean said, his tone lighter than his words. "Fair enough. Then what the hell do you want to do, anyway?"

Sam shrugged. All he knew was that he was pretty happy where he was. Dean cast a glance at him, and his smile grew wider, but faint; like it was meant only for Sam. Like it was a secret.

Sam took a breath and held it, feeling the moment. Dean beside him, hands on the steering wheel, where he belonged. The Impala was filled with familiar smells -- leather, sweat, Dean, Cheetos, faint traces of fresh-cut grass. Lynyrd Skynyrd wailed in low volume, _sweet home Alabama, where the skies are so blue --_

"I hate this song," said Sam.

Dean smiled again, slowly sending the Impala around another back-country curve. Then he full-out grinned, and rolled the window down. Sam, with a sideways glance, followed suit.

"Me too," said Dean. "Turn it up,"

Sam twisted the knob on the radio, caught the crest of the next verse. The wind from the open windows ruffled Dean's hair, and Sam's hair blew in his eyes, making him blink. The lines from the song were torn from the car in a mess of music and wind, blaring down the road in a crooked line of sound as they drove on.

_\-- labama, Lord, I'm coming home to you._

Yeah, Sam thought.

Yeah. Something like that.

 

END


End file.
